


Tongue Like A Serpent's

by ChannelTheFlannel (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Second Year, Malfoy Family, POV Draco Malfoy, Parseltongue, Quidditch, Slytherin Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 77,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ChannelTheFlannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second Year has arrived, and there's more tension than before. The lines between Light and Dark are starting to blur, and people are trying to define the divide more than ever. All the while, the Chamber of Secrets has opened, and everyone wants to figure out the identity of the Heir of Slytherin.<br/>And it can't be Harry Potter, can it? And if it is, who could be to blame for that?</p><p> </p><p>Off hiatus! Check me out on tumblr. My url is channeltheflannel :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lucius Malfoy and the Epically Failed Zoo Trip

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read "The House Wins" (the first book of the series), you definitely should. It will explain a lot.  
> "In Like A Lion" will explain some stuff, too, but it's still in the works, so keep an eye out for that.  
> Enjoy!

It was Harry's twelfth birthday, and Lucius didn't understand why  _he_ ended up being the one chaperoning the celebration.

It had started off as a peaceful, ordinary day.

Narcissa had been away at one of her charity events, and Draco had been enjoying the day with Harry. Lucius had been anticipating a day home to do work. After all, he had to stay on top of his work if he wanted to continue rising higher in the politcal ranks.

Sometimes, though, he wondered if Dumbledore had ever needed to do so much paperwork. Other times he was convinced it was his alternative punishment to make up for his Death Eater days.

But he wasn't even allowed the small luxury of working in peace that day. No later than two hours after Draco left, he was interrupted from his mundane tasks.

"Lucius!" Sirius exclaimed, his head poking through the floo.

"Black!" Lucius gasped. "Is Draco alright?" he demanded nervously, his mind conjuring unhelpful scenarios to explain why Sirius had shown up at such an unlikely time.

"He's fine, you wart," Sirius muttered, "but Moony and I are in a bit of a stitch. Some reporter's come in just as we were about to leave." His lip was curled in definite distaste.

Lucius knew they'd had their fair share of drama with the media in the past, so of course he felt sympathy for them. How could he not, especially after they had become friends?

"What would you like me to do?" he inquired. "I could threaten to get them fired. I'm sure I know someone." Working at the Ministry did have it's perked.

The flames constituting Sirius' face flickered and distorted his expression. "That really won't be necessary," he insisted. "Just take the boys, alright? We promised to take them to the zoo, and we've already bought tickets." He jerked his head back as there was backround shouting.

"The _zoo?"_ Lucius demanded. "You were planning on taking my son to a  _muggle_ establishment? And you didn't bother to ask me?" He felt whatever respect he had developed for Sirius evaporating. 

"Yes!" Sirius cried impatiently. "Narcissa said she ran it by you. She encouraged it, in fact. Now, can you take the boys or not?" 

Lucius grimaced. He was beginning to understand why Narcissa had to suddenly disappear for an event that day. She didn't want to be around Lucius when he found out about this  _atrocity._

She had probably planned this herself, just to irk him. Their mind games had gotten out of hand lately. She kept on bringing up muggle and half-blood issues into conversation, so of course he had to mention the marriage equality act he and several others were working on presenting to the Wizengamot. 

And this was Narcissa's revenge--sending Draco to a muggle animal prison. It was repulsive, but he would not allow her to trump himon this. He would prove himself to be the less bigoted one, and he would help Sirius and Remus.

Perhaps he could put an end to their stupid feud.

"Yes, I will take them," he said graciously.

A look of relief washed over Sirius, and his relieved exhalation caused the flames to dance rapidly.

"Thank Merlin. You're a godsend, Lucius!" he exclaimed. "I was going to have to ask Longbottom, and Harry thinks he's terribly boring."

Lucius felt surprise color his cheeks pink. Did Harry think he was  _fun,_ if he thought Longbottom was boring?

He could be fun. He would try to be fun. If he was going to be a chaperone, he was going to do it  _right._

"Send them through, I suppose," he said, bracing himself. "The main floo, not this one. I don't want them scuffing up my study."

Sirius beamed at him. "Thanks for doing this, mate." And then the floo went out, and he was gone.

Deciding it would be best to be there when they arrived, Lucius got up to greet the boys. Of course, he had only been expecting Draco and Harry, so he was more than a little surprised when he saw not two, but  _five_ boys to crawl out of his fireplace.

"Hi, Mr. Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed. "Moony said to give this to you." He handed over a wad of colorful paper.

"Muggle money?" Lucius took the smooth paper tentatively. "He should know he doesn't have to pay me for this. And even if he did, he could bother to use _valid_ currency."

"It's for the zoo," Draco said tentatively, looking up at him tentatively. "You're alright with that, right?" He looked surprised and nervous, as if he didn't expect Lucius to let them go.

"Of course I'm alright with it," Lucius grumbled, wondering what nonsense Narcissa had been feeding him now. "I'm perfectly reasonable, and it's Harry's birthday. Now, do you care to introduce your other friends?"

There was a dark-skinned boy who he vaguely recognized, a familiar-looking tall boy, and an unfortunately chubby one who he could only assume was the Longbottom boy that Draco had describd to him.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy," said the tall one, giving a gracious bow. "Theodore Nott. My mother sends her highest gratitudes." The boy offered his hand, and Lucius shook it firmly, appreciating the polite pureblood manners.

Of course, he recognized the name. "And I return my kindest acknowledgement," he replied, wondering why his mother would be grateful. Nott was one of the men that Lucius' testimony had sent to Azkaban.

The dark-skinned boy offered his hand. "Blaise Zabini, sir. My mother sends her gratitude as well." He was more stiff, clearly not as well accustomed to the customs.

Which made sense. Lucius knew Arabella at one point, and the woman, while poised, had never been conventional.

"How lovely to meet you again, Blaise," Lucius replied.

The third boy stumbled forth, looking mortified. He didn't make eye contact as he offered his hand, muttering, "Neville Longbottom, sir."

Lucius remembered vaguely that the boy's mother had been severly tortured by Death Eaters, and was in the hospital. He could understand his hesitance; it was something he had experienced much of in his years since signing Dumbledore's contract.

"Shall we go?" Harry inquired, grinning with the cheekiness that only a birthday boy could manage. 

"Not until Father changes into muggle clothes," Draco cut in pertinently. "It would be careless to dress in robes for this, Father," he added reverently.

Lucius blinked, taken aback. "Well, I wouldn't want to be careless."

* * *

They had walked to the zoo from a nearby Apparition point. Lucius felt extremely vulnerable in the muggle-styled clothes, something Narcissa had bought him years ago to send a message that he never bothered acknowledging. 

His clothes seemed to be very different than the muggle clothes he saw, though. They were all wearing very bright looking garments, whereas Lucius was in mostly black. 

And people were staring at him. He thought the point of wearing the dreadful things was so he  _wouldn't_ be gawked at.

Harry seemed to have noticed Lucius' discomfort. "It's because you're wearing a suit, sir," he whispered. "Usually muggles wear more casual things to places like this. It makes you look very rich, though."

Lucius had smirked at that, deciding that wasn't something he minded being gawked at over.

Then, out of the blue, a girl with frizzy hair and a strangely-patterned muggle sweater burst through the fray of muggles and threw herself onto Harry, who reciprocated warmly.

"Hermione!" he cried. "What are you doing here?"

"It was a surprise," the girl said. "Your parents wrote mine and--oh." Her voice faltered when she looked up and saw Lucius. "You're not Padfoot. Or Moony."

Draco stepped in and took Lucius' hand, who startled at the gesture.

"Hermione! This is my father. I've told you about him." His voice sounded rather stiff, and Lucius noticed a look of understanding dawning on all the children's faces.

The girl tilted her head and smiled pleasantly. "Oh. Hello, Mr. Malfoy. I'm Draco and Harry's friend, though I'm--" 

"A Ravenclaw!" Draco finished for her quickly.

"I was going to say that," the girl muttered.

Lucius, thoroughly perplexed, stared down at the girl. "Hello," he answered hesitantly. He stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out if he recognized her. "I'm afraid I can't place your last name. Do your parents work at the Ministry? Perhaps I know them."

Draco let go of Lucius' hand and stood next to his friends, smiling falsely. "They're Healers, Father."

Lucius didn't know what to say to his son's strange behavior, so he simply nodded pensively. 

The children seemed unbothered by that, so they continued on ahead of him. They seemed to know where they were going, unlike himself. He was distracted by all the sights and smells, and barely noticed when the group had separated.

In fact, he had been too busy staring at a colorful, fragrant stand that he hadn't even noticed the boys had ran off. It was the girl who drew his attention to it.

"Boys," she huffed bitterly.

Panic set when he realized they were gone. "Where did they go?" he demanded, spinning around in a circle. He had already failed the one task he had been given--keep track of the boys.

Now, he couldn't even do the optional task, which was to try and be fun.

"The reptile house," she answered, rolling her eyes. "I thought one of us should stay behind, though. Weren't you paying attention?"

Lucius tried not to let his embarrasment show. "I'm a bit overwhelmed," he grumbled. "Where is this reptile house?" he asked her, trying to fathom what that could even mean.

"Let's find a map," she suggested.

The girl had ended up finding a huge, complicated sign covered in static, unmoving symbols and pictures. Lucius couldn't understand a word of what it meant, but she seemed to, and soon she was leading him along a pathway.

She explained everything to him as they went, pointing out all the animals and idenifying their magical counterparts and where they were from. She was rather bright, and seemed to be enjoying herself.

Lucius thought he could tick off the "fun" objective, because the girl was clearly having fun. He just didn't admit that she didn't seem to entirely notice he was there. She just kept jabbering on.

"How do you know all this?" Lucius asked at last, after she had begun trying to explain "electricity," which kept certain enclosures at certain temperatures. He certainly hadn't paid so much in Care of Magical Creatures class, and he hadn't even bothered to learn about non magical animals.

Her skip faltered, but she shrugged it off. "Oh. My parents wanted me to understand, er, muggle things," she told him.

Lucius grimaced, wondering what wizard had thought that up. Though, it was clearly useful, so he didn't complain or snipe about it. He constantly was reminding himself to be a bigger, better person than Narcissa, who definitely wouldn't have tolerated as much if she were forced to spend time around anything  _queer._ _  
_

He had forgotten himself when they went past the peacock enclosure, which he stood enraptured by for several long minutes. 

"The albinos are extremely rare--"

"I know," Lucius interrupted her. "I own twelve. But these ones are equally as pleasant."

The girl had been dumbfounded for a long moment, but Lucius wasn't paying attention. Like a child, he was staring at the gorgeous creatures as one of the males fanned out his tail feathers.

The colors made it seem magical, he thought. He had grown up believing the white peacocks were a sign of purity, but he realized there was nothing wrong with the ordinary ones, either.

He didn't bother to contemplate the deeper implications of that thought. 

The flamingo enclosure was not half as pleasant. It reeked horribly, and the birds were extremely loud. They didn't stay much longer, and the girl told him that the reptile house was very nearby.

By the time they got there, however, chaos had erupted. Muggles were screaming, and Lucius couldn't spot any of the boys anywhere. He had no idea what had gone wrong until he saw a huge, green snake slithering out of the building.

Mortified, Lucius told the girl to stay back as he crept towards the snake, slipping between muggles. As he got closer, he heard something he hadn't heard in a very, very long time.

_Parseltongue._

It sent shivers down his spine, filling him with terrible memories. He felt submissive fear filling him as he recalled Draco's recollection of the post-exam events beneath the school.

For one long, frantic moment, he believed that Voldemort had returned, and he wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do with himself. Hide? Check his Dark Mark? Take his son and Harry and leave?

But then he saw Harry, who was kneeling on the ground and hissing at the snake. Several terrified muggles were hanging back, unsure of what was going on. Draco was clutching Harry's shoulder, trying to pull him away, his face drawn white from fear.

"Boys!" Lucius shouted at them, and they both snapped out of whatever trance they were in.

Harry looked Lucius in the eye and began hissing at him.

 _Another Dark Lord,_ he thought weakly, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. He felt himself impulsively beginning to kneel, unable to stop himself, unsure of what he was even doing, until he heard muggles shouting at him.

"Stay away from the snake, sir," a man in a bright orange shirt instructed. "Back away slowly."

And before he could process the moment, all the children were congregated at his side, looking confused and scared. Lucius stared down at Harry in confusion, and the boy didn't even seem to realize what he had been doing.

Lucius remembered himself and his purpose, and he cleared his throat.

"I think we're done with the zoo. Why don't we go to Diagon Alley instead?"

* * *

Lucius was still a bit shaken by the time the children had unanimously convinced him to take them to Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. He probably wouldn't have protested if he weren't shaken, but he wasn't going to admit to himself he was going soft.

He was barely paying attention when the Nott boy tittered on about his mother, and he didn't stop the Zabini boy from buying four scoops of ice cream ("It's your fault if you get sick!" Draco snickered at him).

The children acted as if the incident at the zoo had never happened. Lucius wondered if they already knew about Harry's Dark powers, or if he had been the only one to notice.

He would have to talk to Remus and Sirius about it. Not Dumbledore--he didn't want to know what the Headmaster's reaction would be. He would probably forcibly keep Lucius away from Harry.

After all, his contract dictated he wasn't allowed to associate with anyone Dark. He wondered why he hadn't begun to feel the flickering feeling of Dumbledore's fire (if Harry was so Dark) in the way that it normally did when he was breaking his contract. 

That thought seemed to soothe him a little, and he became present enough to hear both Draco and the Hermione girl begging to be taken to Flourish and Blotts.

"Does Harry want to go?" Lucius asked them. He tried to tell himself he was asking because it was Harry's birthday, not because he didn't want to upset any young Lords.

"If they want to," Harry answered warmly, not at all seeming like an evil, self-centered Dark Lord.

Blaise groaned in protest, but the other children seemed otherwise cheerful about it. Lucius, slowly coming back to reality, was pleased to note that Draco surrounded himself with studious friends.

"We ought to buy our Defense books for this year," Hermione proclaimed, looking as though she were a seven-year-old talking about getting a crup. "I looked up the author--Gilderoy Lockhart. He's supposed to be an incredible adventurer."

It didn't even register in Lucius' mind that he had heard the name before.

When they arrived at Flourish and Blotts, the children all seemed to dissipate into the throng of people. Lucius had never seen the bookstore so crowded, and he was overwhelmed by laughing and chattering and flashing.

The children all eagerly ran towards the commotion, and Lucius crept towards a quieter corner where he could think for a moment. He pressed his back against the bookshelf and closed his eyes, trying to think his way through the Parseltongue incident.

The only thing that resulted in was his mind becoming filled with hisses, sharp whispers barbed with words he couldn't decipher. 

He snapped his eyes open, and was surprised to find and old friend standing in front of him, peering at him closely.

Former friend would be a better word for it, he decided. He regarded the pallid man before him with distate, noticing that his skin had wrinkled with age and his sleek black hair had begun to go grey.

"Parkinson," he said carefully, removing himself from the bookshelf. "Azkaban seems to have done you well."

Parkinson sneered, and Lucius noticed he was clutching a strangely familiar book to his chest.

"And  _not_ going to Azkaban seems to have done you even better," he growled, regarding Lucius closely. "Tell me Lucius, what's different about you? You seem younger than I remember... And are those  _muggle_ clothes?" He snickered darkly. "I never thought you to be a trend-follower."

Lucius stiffened, remembering his unfortunate apparel. He chose to not take the bait, however.

"What is it that you want, Parkinson?" he demanded. He remembered Draco's account of his encounter at Kings Cross, and the unsavoury things that Parkinson and his daughter had said to his son. 

His head tilting wickedly, the other man shrugged with an elegance to match Lucius' own. He seemed stiff, bitter, and Lucius decided he wasn't going to trust a word the man said.

"I was wondering if you noticed that your son was consorting with mudbloods," he said casually, throwing his gaze to where Draco and his friend Hermione were standing close together, reading a book. "Pansy has told me  _all_ _about_ that Granger girl. A filthy mudblood, with no regard for our culture. How could you let that be, Lucius?"

Lucius blinked in surprise. He had never even considered the idea that the girl wasn't a pureblood; she had been so composed and intelligent. Charming, even. 

"That can't be true," Lucius replied cooly. "My son would never associate with a mu--mu--" he winced, and felt Dumbledore's flames singing his throat and tongue.

Parkinson sneered in satisfaction, and moved closer to Lucius, cornering him against the bookshelf.

"You can't even say it, can you, Lucius?" His breath was sharp and stinging on Lucius' face. " _Mudblood,_ Lucius."

The word felt like a nip of flame on his skin, and he wondered if even this violated his contract. He tried to move away from Parkinson, but a hand darted out and gripped his shoulder, holding him in place. 

"Look at you," Parkinson growled. "Dressed in muggle clothes, chaperoning children, cowering in a corner. What happened to the Lucius Malfoy I knew?" His voice was a low growl, filled with resentment that had been bottled up for years. "I think he vanished the minute you betrayed us. He became a blind, weak little servant to Dumbledore and his  _silly_ little Order. Isn't that right?" His fingernails dug into Lucius' shoulder painfully.

He broke free, steeling over in determination. He stepped away from the bookshelf, suddenly feeling level with Parkinson. Clear-headed.

_Brave._

"Wrong," he hissed. "I did the smart thing--repented for my foolish mistakes, because I understand that  _family_ is more important than  _power."_ He gave Parkinson his best sneer, narrowing his eyes and curling his lips. "I saw the Light, Parkinson. I will do whatever it takes to protect my son's future."

"Spoken like a true weakling," Parkinson growled. "You will always need someone to bow to, to protect you. You couldn't stand up to the power of the law."

"Believe what you wish." Lucius turned away, set on gathering the children. "You were the one to abandon your daughter. And look how happy turned out because of it."

He didn't wait for Parkinson's response, instead making his way to where he saw Parkinson's daughter making rude faces at Draco and Hermione.

He glanced over and noticed, mortified, that Harry was having his picture taken with a pompous-looking man holding a book with his face on it. 

 _Remus is going to kill me,_ he realized.

It was going to be all his fault when Harry Potter's face was all over the papers the next day.

 


	2. Draco Malfoy and the Time He Met A Wonderful Hero and Harry Had A Major Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are already going weird, and then they meet Professor Lockhart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unrelated, but have you listened to the Hamilton soundtrack? The song "You'll Be Back" is what I think Lucius is like in A Very Potter Musical. Or how he would be if (merlin forbid) Narcissa left him.
> 
> I have been listening to it on repeat for the past 2 hours.

Draco had been nervous all day, ever since the moment Padfoot had told him that  _his_ father would be overseeing the zoo trip, not him and Moony.

He knew it was just a disaster waiting to happen. Father hated muggles just as much as anything, though he mostly kept quiet about it (something to do with the contract). Father would ruin Harry's birthday for everyone, as much as he loved him. 

Something terrible would happen; Father couldn't help it. It just happened.

And then Hermione had shown up out of the blue, and he just  _knew_ Father would find out she was a muggleborn and get upset. He wouldn't be able to stop himself...

But surprisingly, everything that had gone wrong wasn't even on Father's accord. He had been in a strange daze the entire day. He hadn't even noticed Hermione, and seemed to even enjoy her.

He had been especially odd after Harry's magic accidentally broke the glass on that snake's enclosure. 

Harry had started hissing at the snake as well, which was disturbing more than anything. But Harry didn't mention it later; he didn't seem to realize that what he had done was unusual. But Father had certainly noticed.

And then he had taken them to Diagon Alley for ice cream, which he had done with Draco before (though he had never imagined him taking more than just, perhaps, two children). But Father he had done it, though he seemed particularly out of it. And Draco stopped worrying as much about what he would do.

Everything after that was going brilliantly (up to a point). They arrived at the bookstore, and much to his and Hermione's delight, Gilderoy Lockhart (who had practically written the entire booklist!) was signing autographs. Draco couldn't believe their luck, and had forgotten all about Father.

Lockhart had immediately spotted Harry, and pulled him to the front of the line. That left Draco with Hermione, because Blaise had dragged Theo and Neville to the "Action and Adventure Section," because he "didn't want to think about school books quite yet."

So, he and Hermione stood there for several minutes, both reading (and enraptured by) Lockhart's book  _Gadding With Ghouls._

"This is much more exciting than last year's summer reading," Draco whispered by the time he got to the third page.

Hermione, who was on the tenth page, shrugged. "It's just different. But we should get in line, don't you think? I want this man's autograph." She was grinning profusely, and Draco shared her excitement.

Things had gone downhill from there, as Draco realized that Lockhart had begun to use Harry as a prop for his photographs. He knew that would be a terrible thing, because Moony and Padfoot (mostly Moony) were still doing their best to keep Harry out of the media, and had done so successfully so far.

It would be the first actual newspaper photo of Harry to-date, and that wouldn't be good at all. But he was sure Lockhart just didn't understand that, and it was too late, because he had already begun to take the pictures (and Draco couldn't help but feel envious).

Before he could even begin to properly react to that, though, Pansy Parkinson just _had_ to show her ugly face and  _ruin_ everything.

"I didn't know they let mudbloods in here," she remarked, sidling up to Hermione and looking at her as if she were pond scum. "Probably only because of Potter, right? Without him, you two wouldn't be  _anything."_ She laughed to herself at that, as if she were actually  _clever._

"Shove off, Parkinson," Draco growled, standing in front of Hermione. "What are you even doing here?"

"Oh, my, Draco," Parkinson hummed, "don't tell me Granger's your  _girlfriend!"_ She held a hand to her mouth as if scandalized. "I shouldn't be surprised, though, considering how _soft_ you Malfoys have gone."

"What would you know, Parkinson?" Draco growled, crossing his arms. He didn't mention that he would never date Hermione--that would only make things worse.

"Oh, Daddy's told me all sorts of things about your family," she sneered, leaning in with a malicious grin. "You're a bunch of weaklings, you Malfoys. You need to suck off of people like Potter to have any worth."

Draco stuttered and tried to search for an answer, but of course it was at that moment that Harry came back to them, his face flushed red from embarassment. That changed the moment he saw Parkinson, and his eyes narrowed.

"What are  _you_ doing here?" Harry demanded.

Parkinson cackled in delight. "See, Malfoy? You always need Potter to defend you. And look how pleased he is with all the attention." She turned to Harry and cocked an eyebrow. "Look at Potty! He's got his picture in the paper."

And then Father had stormed over, looking much less dazed from before and much angrier. 

"Draco, where are the rest of your friends? I think its time to leave." 

"Over there," Draco said faintly, pointing to where Blaise was waving a book in Theo's face, and Neville was hunched over a separate book with a confused look on his face.

"We haven't even gotten our books yet," Hermione protested, apparently not put off by Parkinson's jeers or Father's mood. And of course not. All she needed was her books.

Father's eyes fell on her, and there was a flash of irritation and recognition that filled Draco with worry. 

"You have five minutes," Father said gravely. He glared at Pansy, who suddenly didn't seem so tough. She pulled a face and ran away.

"I'll get you to the front of the line, Hermione," Harry offered. "You, too, Draco. But I don't think this Lockhart fellow is as great as you think he is..."

"Not so fast, Harry," Father cut in, grasping Harry's shoulder. "Why were you getting your photo taken? What do you think your fathers will say?" He seemed more frantic now than angry.

He was probably just as afraid of angering Moony as Draco and Harry were.

"The damage has been done, sir," Harry replied cooly, though he still seemed a bit shaken.

Father pulled away, suddenly looking taken aback, as if realizing something. He frowned, and said, "I'll gather the other three. Be quick."

Draco had never seen him like this before. He was growing nervous again, but then Harry was pulling them towards the front of the line, much to the protest of the other people.

And then, Harry was presenting them to Lockhart.

"These are my friends, Hermione and Draco. They're fans, I think." He cast a sideways glance at the two of them and rolled his eyes.

Hermione turned bright pink, and Draco hoped that he wasn't a similar shade, but he probably was, because his cheeks felt hot and he smiled up at the impressive man. He was meeting someone  _famous_ (who wasn't Harry, of course, because that didn't count).

Lockhart smiled at both of them, which just worsened their blushes. He shook both of their hands.

"You're all going to be at Hogwarts this year?" he asked them. His eyes were shining, and Draco found he quite liked the look of them.

"Yes, sir," Hermione said shyly.

Draco just nodded enthusiastically, and ignored Harry's annoyed huff.

"Well, then, why don't I just give you free copies of your Defense books this year?" He flashed that same charming smile again, and flicked his wand. Three stacks of books flew into his hands with a thud, and he winced as they hit. He didn't drop them, though.

It waa impressive.

"Anything for Mr. Potter and his friends," he added with a grunt.

"You really didn't need to do that," Draco insisted, though he and Hermione were both taking the books anyway. "We can buy our own."

"Yes, you really didn't need to," Harry grumbled, crossing his arms.

"Don't mention it!" Lockhart exclaimed, thrusting the books towards Harry. "In fact, now that we've had our photoshoot, I think this would be the perfect time to make my announcement!" He clapped his hands, and all of Flourish and Blotts went silent.

Draco was so intently watching Lockhart that he didn't even notice his father staring daggers at them.

"Ladies and getlemen!" the handsome hero shouted, quite clearly used to and good at garnering people's attention (a talent Draco thought would be quite useful). "These young students came expecting nothing more than an autograph, and of course a copy of  _Magical Me._ But, I am now happy to announce that they, and every other student at Hogwarts, will be receiving the  _actual_ magical me. Yes, all you people, I am taking up the positiion as the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Howarts!"

The bookshop erupted into cheering, and Draco couldn't believe his luck. Gilderoy Lockhart---who was, according to the back of his book, clearly the number one expert in fighting the Dark Arts--was going to be his teacher! _  
_

He was smiling like an idiot, imagining how this year was going to be  _so_ much better than the last. 

But then Harry was dragging them towards Father and the exit, and Draco was slightly disappointed that he didn't get to say goodbye to his future-teacher.

At the door, though, they found Father having some kind of stand-down with Mr. Parkinson and a tall read-headed man--with the entire Weasley family in tow.

Which spelled Bad News. With the capital letters.

"What are you two plotting?" the head Weasley demanded, glaring at Father and Parkinson. "Two Death Eaters in one place... I saw you two in the corner, and I don't like it one bit, Malfoy."

"I haven't associated with the Parkinsons in years, Weasley," Father returned calmly, his face a mask of indifference.

Draco stopped paying attention, though, because he heard his friends arguing with someone.

Multiple someones, in fact. On one side, Neville was being subjected to the anger of none other than Ronald Weasley, and both Blaise and Theo were bickering with Pansy Parkinson. 

"What are you doing with this lot, Nev?" Ronald demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at the Slytherins.

"They're my friends," Neville replied soundly, though he looked terrified. 

Parkinson was worse, though. 

"Blaise, why do I keep thinking you're better than this?" she demanded. "And yet here you are, playing with mudbloods and blood traitors!" She had an ugly sneer on her face, and then she went on a tirade that was even more offensive.

"Honestly--you too, Theo. It's disgraceful. Both of your mothers are deviants, whatever that means--Father told me that. But that doesn't mean you're both _stupid_." She looked Hermione straight in the eye. "Honestly, they're not even like us. I can't list a single way in which a muggle-raised _creature_ would be as good as us. Just freaks, they are... Merlin knows how they got their magic..."

Draco had to stop listening, though,  because Hermione looked like she was about to cry, and Blaise and Theo were completely dumbstruck. Before Pansy could keep going on with her rubbish, Draco interrupted, stepping into Parkinson's face.

"Don't say 'mudblood.' Don't say any of that about my friends," he snarled. "Their mothers are fine, and the only _deviant_ or _creature_ here is you, Parkinson." He took another step forward and relished in the fear that was glowing in her eyes. "In fact, I would say that you--"

He didn't get to finish and call her a freak, because he was interrupted by a book flying through the air and hitting Parkinson square in the chest. She gasped, doubled over, and everything went silent. 

Draco turned to see Harry, his face tight with anger, and one less book in his arms. 

"Get out of my store," someone shouted. "All of you. I won't have any of this! It's completely inappropriate!" 

Then, they were outside, and Father and Mr. Weasley were still arguing. Neville was awkwardly trying to comfort Hermione, and Blaise and Theo were muttering to each other. The Weasleys were bunched together behing their father, and Pansy looked as though she very much wanted to escape. 

"You dropped this," Mr. Parkinson said darkly to Harry, and handed him the book that had been thrown. He said something else that Draco couldn't hear, but judging by the look on Harry's face, it was nothing good. 

Draco hurried over to him as the Parkinsons were leaving. 

"What was that all about?" he demanded. He had never seen Harry act out like that before. 

"I don't know," Harry replied dryly. "But I don't want these books anymore. Just take them." He shoved all his Lockhart books into Draco's already-full arms, and turned away dejectedly. 

"Let's go, children," Father called, and he was stalking away away from Mr. Weasley. 

Draco didn't know what to do with all the books in his arms, and so he decided he would fulfil an act of charity for the day and give them to the nearest Weasley. They were infinitely poor, after all, and if he was lucky, they'd be insulted by the gesture.

He bumped into the girl Weasley and dumped all the books into the new cauldron she was carrying. She looked up at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"What...?"

"Just take it," he sneered. "Merlin knows you need the help," he added, and then turned on his heel. Next, he was running back to Father and his friends with empty arms. 

They were all walking down Diagon Alley in a group, going in the opposite direction of the Weasleys. Father was exuding an unhappy energy, and none of them were talking in the fear of provoking his anger.

"We're going back to Godric's Hollow," Father announced at last as they entered the Leaky Cauldron. "Unless you would like to floo home by yourselves, that is."

It turned out that everyone except for Hermione decided to floo home by themselves. For obvious reasons.

"I don't know how to use a floo," she admitted quietly.

Father spun to stare at her, and Draco was worried he was going to get upset. What he said instead surprised him.

"Of course you don't. You're a muggleborn." He shook his head and crossed his arms. "Sirius and Remus will have to find a way to get you home. I'm not staying responsible for you."

It wasn't the friendliest thing in the world, but it was better than the alternative, Draco supposed.

Hermione, Harry, Draco, and Father all flooed back to Harry's house, where Moony and Padfoot were sitting by the fire and looking exhausted.

"Lucius." Padfoot stood up. "You're back early. How did things go?"

"Terrible," Father snapped. "Your interview didn't go much better, I presume?"

"Depends on your day," Moony replied. "And I hope you got the other boys home safely..." He trailed off and noticed the fourth person with them. "And is this the famous Hermione?" 

"Hello," Hermione squeaked, still clutching her books to her chest. She looked a little shaken, though admittedly happy.

Draco turned to Father, who was still looking rather flustered. "Are we going home?" he asked quietly, though he really didn't want to.

"I think you can spend the night here," Father replied. "Your mother won't appreciate it, but I would rather you stay here. I have some thoughts to work out." 

He also probably wanted to get away from Moony.

"Are you alright?" Moony asked, stepping forward and looking at them concernedly. 

"Ask the children," Father growled. "I, for one, would like to save my explanations for my wife." Then, he turned around with a dramatic flourish, and was through the floo in a flash.

Moony blinked in surprise, but was most likely used to Father's antics by now.

"Tea?" he asked casually.

"Cinnamon, please," Draco answered immediately.

Padfoot let out a tiny groan. "Bad news, then."

Harry let out a sigh and lowered himself onto the couch, snuggling himself up to his Padfoot. "Probably," he murmured.

Draco and Hermione sat on the floor next to the fireplace, and they each began to tell the story, adding in their own parts. Everything went smoothly until they got to the part about the zoo, which was when Moony entered to deliver them all hot cups of cinnamon tea.

"Thanks, da," Harry murmured, taking the mug from Moony's hands, who settled in next to him. "Anyway, I guess I had a bit of accidental magic, because the glass on the snake's container exploded."

"And it got bad from there," Draco interjected. "The muggles were terrified."

Hermione snorted into her cup of tea. "Well, they're not used to python enclosures exploding. They probably thought it had struck the glass." She rolled her eyes. "Which wouldn't have broken it anyway."

"I like this one," Moony chuckled, putting an arm around Harry.

Draco, who was seated several feet away from Hermione on the carpet, felt rather left out of the family scene.

Harry smiled and took another sip of his tea. "Anyway, I think the snake must have been magical, because it thanked me--"

"That didn't happen," Draco cut in with a frown. "It didn't say anything. It's a snake."

Harry sat up a little and tilted his head. "Maybe you were distracted, because it definitely talked to me. And I talked to it. You were probably busy running away."

He had a very certain glint to his eye that made Draco incredibly nervous.

"You've gone mad," Draco murmured, setting his tea down next to himself. "There were no talking snakes. In your head maybe, but you weren't saying anything either."

He couldn't help but notice that Padfoot and Moony had gone incredibly stiff.

"Well, maybe it was in my head," Harry replied cautiously, most likely realizing how uncomfortable his fathers were, "but I most certainly heard it speak. It thanked me, and then as it was slithering away, I told it not to hurt anyone. It said it was going to find a home." He frowned, and looked at Draco curiously again. "That was about when your father showed up."

"And he was terrible distressed," Hermione added. "I mean, he had been very quiet the entire time, but as soon as we heard you hissing like that, it was as if he had seen a ghost."

There was a moment of silence, and Moony sat up a little and cleared his throat.

"Do any of you know what Parseltongue is?" he asked them slowly, peering at Harry with an odd expression.

"No," they all answered.

Padfoot curled a protective arm around Harry, having gone rather pale and uncharacteristically silent. Harry looked stiff beside him, but he still curled into the comfort of his parent's embrace.

Moony and Padfoot exchanged the kind of communicative looks that Draco had seen his parents use, and they seemed to come to some kind of consensus.

"What's Parseltongue?" Hermione blurted, never wont to be out of the know.

In another situation, it might have earned a chuckle, but the room was ice cold and silent now.

"It might be breaching an unofficial agreement with Dumbledore to say this," Moony began, "but I believe that it's better to leave you informed than curious and reckless. We don't want a repeat of last year, after all."

He was, of course, referring to the multiple occasions where Draco and Harry got in trouble snooping around for answers that the adults hadn't provided them. Draco was grateful for the semblance of transparency being offered to them now.

"Agreement?" Hermione inquired, perking up.

Padfoot spoke up for the first time. "Good ol' Dumbles has a list of rules for how we raise our darling Savior," he said dryly, looking down at Harry. "One of those rules is that we don't discuss Dark things with him."

Harry groaned. "Out with it already, das!" he pleaded. "Does it Parseltongue have to do with snakes?"

"Yes," Moony answered, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "It's the ability to speak to snakes. Very rare... and usually associated with very powerful Dark wizards."

There was a long moment of tense silence as the idea set in. Draco, Harry, and Hermione weren't small children anymore--they understood the consequences of what was being said.

"Does that mean I'm Dark, then?" Harry choked out, suddenly looking very small. 

Draco felt a rush of sympathy, realizing he had asked a very similar thing just last Christmas, sitting on that same sofa, drinking that same tea. If Moony and Padfoot weren't already both practically squashing Harry, Draco would have bounded over to do it for them.

"I don't think so," Padfoot answered, his voice soft but grave. "You're Harry Potter--James and Lily's son. There has to be some other explanation."

Hermione, who had been very silent, asked, "Was You-Know-Who able to speak Parseltongue?"

"We say Voldemort in this house," Moony corrected her, "and, yes, he was."

Both Draco and Harry gasped.

"I wonder how Lucius is taking this," Padfoot murmured. "He wouldn't tell anyone, would he? We can't have anyone finding this out."

Draco sat up tall and lifted his chin. "Father wouldn't tell," he said decisively. "Not a single soul." Father may have been a Slytherin, but he was unwaveringly loyal, and Draco had come to realize that he was loyal to Harry's family now. 

Moony frowned. "I wonder what will happen if Dumbledore finds out," he breathed.

Draco frowned as well. He realized that Father was unwaveringly loyal to Dumbledore, as well, and a tiny distressed sound escaped his lips.

"I'd rather we talk about Flourish and Blotts now," he admitted quietly.

They had to find out about the photos of Harry eventually, after all. Maybe they would take it well.

 


	3. Lucius Malfoy and the Sneaky Plot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore has some kind of plan, and our (kinda) wonderful Slytherin adults are set on foiling it.

Narcissa was already home when Lucius arrived. She was waiting primly in the sun room, sipping Earl Grey, as if she  _knew_ something was wrong.

Despite the bitter thoughts he'd had all day, Lucius couldn't help but feel a rush of affection.

"You're in your muggle suit," she commented as he stormed in. "Did you happen to go out with the boys today? Remus informed me they'd be going to the zoo."

Lucius scowled as he remembered that she had been aware of the entire muggle zoo business, but he wasn't even angry about that anymore. How could he be? Their petty mind games hardly mattered when he had just practically seen the birth of a young Dark Lord, fought with Parkinson,  _and_ had to deal with the Weasley scum.

"It was quite an eventful day," he growled in response, immediately settling in the spot next to her. He felt stiff, tense, and he knew that he would not be releasing his anger through agression.

Narcissa's hands were on his shoulders immediately, and he felt the coils of her soothing magic running like veins through his muscles.

"Tell me about it, then."

He started by describing their visit at Flourish and Blotts, which was easier, despite the tension he'd had with Parkinson and Weasley. He recounted the entire story, including the bit about the pompous bastard Gilderoy Lockhart announcing himself as the new Defense Teacher, as well as him using Harry as a photography prop.

"I don't even know if I can face Remus after today," Lucius confessed, feeling slightly remiss. He had begun to enjoy the werewolf's company (though he seldom thought of him as  _that);_ he was rather intelligent and introspective. A good friend.

"Why?" Narcissa hummed, releasing another spurt of blue-feeling magic that soothed another coil in his back.

"Harry's going to be all over the papers tomorrow," Lucius answered bitterly, "and it's going to be all my fault. Not to mention the fact he's bound to find out about what happened at the zoo." He shook his head. "Sirius might be more upset about that, though."

"What happened at the zoo, love?"

"Harry spoke Parseltongue," Lucius answered stiffly. He felt Narcissa's hands freeze, and they slowly dropped down, until she had completely retracted from him.

She had a shocked look on her face. "Are you certain?" she asked faintly.

"Absolutely," he replied. "I of all people would remember what that sounds like."

They were both silent for a long moment, and Lucius suddenly felt very cold, very scared. He leaned into his wife, and her arms slipped around him comfortingly.

He let out a long sigh as he was reminded of his goddamned contract with Dumbledore, and what this would mean for that.

"I'm dreadfully afraid of what will happen when our patron finds out about this," he murmured, referring of course to said headmaster. "I'm not sure what this means for us, really. Or Harry."

"The boy can't be Dark," Narcissa whispered hoarsely. "We would have known by now. We would have burned more. Dumbledore wouldn't have initiated our relationship with the boy."

Lucius frowned. "I did think about that, though not explicitly," he admitted. "The man had to have known.... What if this is one of his tests, Narcissa? What if he wants to see what we'll do?"

"I don't catch your meaning," Narcissa replied, her voice cold and distant.

Lucius sat up to look her in the eye, and saw that her lips were creased into a frown, and he was reminded of all the times he had promised himself he would do whatever he could to keep that expression off of her face.

Where had that resolve gone in recent months? Since Draco had left for Hogwarts, it felt as though all he and Narcissa did anymore was bicker and toy with each other.

They had been bored, he realized. They needed something to face off against together. Something they could agree upon. He wasn't entirely sure what that would be, though.

He could use this unfortunate situation as an opportunity, he supposed... but he didn't want to risk their relationship with Harry's parents, and the boy himself.

 _Perhaps this is what Dumbledore wanted,_ he thought.  _To see us squirm over morals like this. To see how much we would bend, how much we would sacrifice to keep him pleased._

"I only mean that Dumbledore is known for his mind games," Lucius replied cautiously, wondering how much leeway the contract gave him in speaking about the notorious Headmaster (in that way, he was beginning to think his service to the Headmaster was more binding than his service to the Dark Lord--then again, Dumbledore had yet to ask him to kill anyone). "I think that perhaps he knew this about the boy, and is using him to get to us."

Narcissa tiltled her head. "You mean to say that, five years ago, he brought Harry Potter to our doorstep, brought him into our hearts, to see what we would do when we thought he was Dark?"

"That is exactly what I was saying," Lucius answered, excitement creeping into his voice. He was reminded of why he loved his wife, why they worked so well together--they thought on the same page.

"It seems awfully complex, darling," she murmured, but her frown was twisting into a smirk. "What do you suggest we do?"

Lucius couldn't help but smirk back.

"Well, we do the Slytherin thing," he answered coyly. "We don't do anything at all. We defy him and his wishes without actively defying him or his wishes."

She leaned back, looking like a cat ready to spring on its prey.

"What else do you think he knew all along?" she inquired softly. "Perhaps something involving the Stone Draco told us about?"

Lucius' eyes widened, and it was all he could do but grin. He felt alive again, conspiring and teaming up with his Narcissa, united with her once more on the same front.

He had, of course, thought about what she was implying. He kept it to himself, however, in the fear that it was just too paranoid. Too spiteful.

But now, there was no reason to keep it in. They were in the sun room, they were together, and perhaps Dumbledore was as wicked as they had expected.

And he had every reason in the world to be spiteful. If they were correct, Dumbledore had forseen most of this all along--he knew what danger Draco would fall into. He probably wanted them to go after the Stone, dammit. How else could a few first years have gotten that far?

"I do, I do," he answered, drawing his knees to his chest, a motion he could not remember doing last. "I think he wanted Draco and Harry to be the ones to go after the Stone... to stumble across all that information... to relay it to us... to watch him kill Quirrel..."

"But why?" Narcissa asked, her hand skating light circles over his back.

"I do not know," he replied, frowning in concentration.

Of course Dumbledore had orchestrated all this. He orchestrated everything. But somehow, their son was part of their plans, and so was Harry Potter....

"You know, Narcisssa," he began conspiratorially, "Remus tells me that their relationship with Dumbledore is not so smooth as our own. He doesn't have them under his thumb like he does us."

"I wouldn't say we are under his thumb..."

"Semantics, Narcissa," he grumbled. "My point being, I think Dumbledore was hoping we'd be a positive influence on them. Teach them submissiveness, teach them how good it is to remain loyal to him. After all, our lives have been much smoother than theirs in recent years."

Narcissa laughed at that. "But darling, I think we've influenced them in all the wrong ways. Harry has become a Slytherin, after all, and we're not sounding very submissive now."

"My point, dear. Dumbledore may not be pleased with our actions... And he might be conspiring a way to get back at us for it." He shuddered at the thought, imagining those flames licking at him again. "We must be careful with what we do or say, lest he find some way to twist his contract against us." _  
_

Narcissa stiffened, finally catching his meaning.

"We lie low, then," she whispered.

"And we hope that Harry doesn't turn out to be Dark," Lucius added gravely. "And either way, we hope we have chosen the right side."


	4. Draco Malfoy and the Disappointing and Suspicious (But Short) Absence of His Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summer comes to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor cliffhanger. Sorry not sorry.

Hermione had gone home that evening, as her parents were worried about her after hearing about the snake escape on the muggle news.

Draco was staying with Harry, and Padfoot and Moony were still in the sitting room, murmuring to each other about what they were going to do.

There was no way either Harry or Draco were going to sleep. Harry was stiff with concern, trying to eavesdrop on his fathers, and Draco was worried for him and his emotional state.

Eventually, they were both sitting next to each other on Harry's bed, wondering what they were to do.

"You're not Dark, you know," Draco said at last, wondering when the tables had turned. Not long ago, Harry was saying similar things to him.

"Maybe I'm not," Harry answered vaguely. "That doesn't change what people think. Moony and Padfoot taught me that when I was very small." He pulled his knees to his chest and began to rock back and forth. "No one can hear about this, Draco," he whispered.

Draco took the opportunity then to put his arm around Harry and rest his head on his shoulder, hoping the physical contact would soothe him. It did, because he felt Harry's body loosen.

"I don't think people will," he replied quietly. "Most likely, the only story we'll hear about you in the papers tomorrow is whatever Lockhart has told them." He found himself grinning at the memory--not only because Lockhart was rather impressive, but because the man's popularity would end up being Harry's saving grace.

"Hopefully," Harry answered, though his voice was laced with bitterness. "We shouldn't have given away our books. I could use a distraction right now." 

Draco frowned. Hermione had kept hers, but she had taken them home with her. He hoped the Weasel he had given the books to put good use to them--did first years even have the same reading list?

"D'you have any books in here?" Draco inquired, wanting to be helpful. He would read to Harry if it made him feel better.

"On the shelf," Harry answered. "They're all old, though. Kids' stories." 

"That'll do for now," Draco answered, springing up to grab the nearest one. It was a relatively thin tome, and he figured it would be enough to put them both to sleep. 

He crawled back onto the bed, gathering Harry's quilts and wrapping it around them like a cape. They leaned against the window beside Harry's bed, the cool glass nice in the summer heat.

Draco began to read them a tale about a bunch of animals trying to hide under a toadstool in the rain. The toadstool seemed to grow bigger and bigger until there were an absurd amount of creatures hiding from the rain beneath it.

It was a ridiculous, simple tale, but it lightened their hearts, and soon they both fell asleep, book on Draco's lap. Harry was out first, slumped against Draco and still sitting upright against the window.

Moments later, Draco succumbed to the dream world as well.

He dreamt of toadstools and snakes, and of heroic Defense teachers throwing books at assaulting ghosts.

* * *

The next morning, they had been relieved to find that there were no stories about the Boy Who Spoke To Snakes.

There was, however, a picture of Harry on the front page, looking rather flustered to have Lockhart's arm around his shoulder and the bright flashes of cameras blinding him. The headline was mostly about Lockart, though there was a bit regarding Harry and his presence at the bookstore.

Luckily, however, there was no mention of the fight in or outside the bookstore. It seemed as though Harry's picture on the front page was just used for celebrity connection. There was no glaring article about the fight.

Moony was scowling, and he muttered something Draco couldn't quite catch. Padfoot seemed fine, though.

"Well, there could be worse ways to reintroduce you to media," he murmured, staring at the front page while he drank his coffee. "Is this that Lockhart fellow?"

Harry merely grumbled in response and looked away, catching Moony's eye. An understanding flashed between them.

Draco, however, ignored them and beamed. "That's him!" he exclaimed. "He's going to be our professor. I read a little of his second best seller, the one about ghouls, and he seems so _heroic_." He didn't know why he was grinning so much, but he was. "I would like to be like him when I'm older," he said decisively.

“Would you?” Padfoot murmured, still looking over the front page. “He’s pretty handsome, isn’t he?”

Moony sighed at this and trudged over to look at the paper. He smirked when he looked at the page, and rolled his eyes. “Mm, he is good looking. I can’t imagine he’s the teacher type, though.” He frowned again, still looking very thoughtful. “I wonder what Dumbledore was thinking with that.”

Draco had a feeling he was wondering about more than just what Dumbledore thought about Lockhart. He seemed to be very deep in thought. He was probably still thinking about the entire Parseltongue thing.

Then Draco was thinking about it, and judging by the frowns on everyone else’s faces, he was pretty sure that they were, too.

“Do you think Father will be alright?” he wondered aloud. “You don’t think he’ll be mad with Harry, will he?”

“That’s what I’m trying to piece together,” Padfoot grumbled.

Moony just snickered. "Why would he be mad? He's the one who let this happen."

Draco wanted to defend his father, say he was caught up with Parkinson, but he remembered how near the full moon it was and decided not to be provocative. 

“You’re not mad at _me_ , are you?” Harry asked suddenly. His eyes were wide, and Draco realized why Harry had been so antsy last night, listening to his fathers’ conversation. With good reason, Draco supposed. They had been so alarmed when they found out he was Slytherin—how was this not worse? Or the same?

“Of course not,” Padfoot said quickly, reaching across the table to take his son’s hand. Moony was there, too, in a moment, a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“If you’re the same when you’re a Slytherin, you’re the same when you speak to snakes,” Moony said assuringly, his tone having changed completely. “It’s not fair if we treat you any differently.”

“If you did, I would have to do something,” Draco murmured, trying to include himself in the conversation. He realized he was mimicking Father.

Harry laughed, and Moony did, too.

Padfoot looked thoughtful, though. “But Harry," he said, "you deserve to know that Moony and I did fight over it last night." He wrung his hands as he admitted that quietly. “But Moony convinced me.” He looked up at Draco. “Just like your father convinced us it wasn’t a problem that Harry was in Slytherin.”

Harry looked like he was about to cry, but in a good way.

“Speaking of your father, you should probably get home soon,” Padfoot said decisively. “He’s probably upset. Let us know how he’s reacting, alright?”

Draco agreed. He wanted to know how Father was taking things. Harry helped him pack and clean up, and then he was going through the floo.

When Draco came home, Mother and Father were reading together in the library. Draco didn’t think he had seen them speak much to each other over the summer so far, so he was surprised by this.

They weren’t bristling at each other, which was a nice development.

"What are you reading?” Draco asked them, creeping up to them and sitting beside Mother.

“Well, I informed your father that we already owned some of Lockhart’s books, so we thought we might read them together and get to know your professor.” Mother was smiling fondly, and Father was still reading with a curious frown on his face.

“Along with Witch Weekly, your mother apparently reads other 'essentials' of pop culture,” he grumbled. “According to that article in the The Propet this morning, this Lockhart is quite the _ladies_ _man_.” He was grimacing as he read.

“How is Harry, after all that?” Mother inquired cooly, setting down her book.

“He’s fine, Mother,” Draco assured her. “We found out he’s a Parselmouth, but Moony says there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Does he?” Father inquired, looking up with a smirk on his face. “Won’t Dumbledore love to hear that…”

Draco didn’t quite know how to take that, but that was apparently all Father had to say on snakes and Harry Potter.

In fact, in the next passing days, when pressed on the subject, they both completely avoided it. They seemed to have some sort of agreement on the subject, and Draco was left out of it.

Moony and Padfoot were not brought up either. However, Draco did recieve an owl saying they would be going on a quick trip abroad to get away before the school year started.

And that was how Harry's birthday turned Draco's summer on it's head.

* * *

The rest of the summer went quickly, with a few extra visits to Diagon Alley thrown in. Those visits were much less eventful, though Draco couldn’t help but think it was because Harry was gone.

After all the excitement, Padfoot and Moony had insisted on taking Harry out of the country, so Draco didn’t get to see much of him in that last month. He spent lots of time reading with Mother, or he would have Blaise over to practice flying, or he and Theo would play old board games. Once or twice Father took him to the Ministry to visit his work, but that was boring.

He was used to Harry being away, but after spending a year at Hogwarts with him, he had nearly forgotten what it was like to be apart. It was a bit boring without him; telling stories wasn’t nearly as fun, and no one had the same imagination as Harry when it came to coming up with things to do.

So, while he didn’t particularly miss the homework, he missed Harry, and he missed having things to do.

He was terribly excited the last two weeks of summer, so much that he had begun packing his trunk early. He kept his wand on him at all times (for practice), and Father had even let him use it a few times.

Mother and Father were finally acting normal again—from what he had seen over last year’s vacations, they had been a little terse. Distant. He had worried it was because of him (had he done something to upset him? was it his letters? was it when he had accused them of being Dark?), but now he was hardly worried. They were acting happy again.

He was sorry, by the end of the summer, when he had to leave them. He was enjoying their company, quiet as it was. They took him for long walks around the grounds, and they helped him in his studies, and he was feeling like a small boy again.

It was lovely and quiet and he had a subtle feeling that he would never have a peaceful time with them like that again.

He was growing up, after all, and Father kept reminding them how quickly his political life was shifting. He had confided that he one day planned to take over as the British representative in the International Council if everything went well.

“ _If_ , mind you,” Father chuckled as they sat at the dinner table. “Dumbledore may take good care of our family, but even he isn’t so insane as to allow me to try and take his position.”

Draco would later think of one of Hermione’s expressions when recalling the memory— _knock on wood_.

But nothing had happened that summer, and it was, all in all, rather uneventful, after Harry’s birthday. He had enjoyed his vacation, and by the end, he was ready to go back to Hogwarts and see Harry again.

Father had taken him to King’s Cross again, without Mother. She claimed to not enjoy the crowds, though Draco suspected Father liked it even less. After all, they had to walk through plenty of muggles to get there.

However, Father was constantly surprising him. He hadn’t been terribly peeved about Hermione (and had, in fact, not mentioned her once), and he had indeed taken them to the zoo (never mind how terribly that went; it wasn’t his fault).

So it wasn’t a surprise when Father took him to King’s Cross, holding his hand and carrying his shrunken luggage.

It was crowded, as usual, and they hung close together until the train came. Draco didn’t want another run-in with Parkinson, and he supposed that Father wouldn’t, either.

“When do you suppose Harry will get here?” Draco inquired absently, swinging their hands back and forth.

Father sighed and stilled the movement. “Soon, I should hope. The train will arrive in a few minutes.”

Draco noticed his stiffness. “Are you going to talk to him?” he inquired, remembering the newspaper incident. It hadn’t gone anywhere, as far as he knew, but he had known how concerned Father had been about taking the blame.

“Of course. He’s my—my friend.” Father’s voice was stiff, but he forced a smile. “But you needn’t worry, Dragon. You just get on the train and say hello to Harry. Can you do that for me?”

Draco laughed and let go of his hand. “Of course I can. I probably won’t do it for you, though.”

There was a loud whistle as the train arrived, and Father insisted on unshrinking Draco’s luggage for easier unpacking when they arrived at school. He said goodbye a moment later, though they waited a few minutes longer for Harry.

He arrived with both Padfoot and Moony just about on time. There was a shirt sticking half out of Harry’s trunk, and they all looked exhausted. Draco could only assume that they arrived in a rush.

"Draco!” Harry exclaimed, running at Draco. He left behind his things in favor of hugging his friend, and Draco did the same.

“Harry!” he shouted with a laugh, wrapping his arms around his friend’s shoulders. It hadn’t been that long, but time without Harry was no fun anyhow.

“We just got back from Iceland,” Harry said as he broke away.

“Iceland?” Draco inquired. Harry was about to answer, but Draco overheard Moony’s response to his father’s similar inquire.

“The press couldn’t get to us there.” Moony’s face was taught, and he looked rather tired. He had probably just gotten over his last transformation.

“It’s all fine, though,” Padfoot assured him, his arm slinking around Moony’s face.

“We were fine. Don’t worry yourself, Lucius.” Father looked agitated, but then they noticed the boys watching.

“Do you plan on missing the train?” Father demanded, sounding slightly agitated.

Draco turned bright red and shook his head. “No, Father. Goodbye.” He hugged him quickly as Harry hugged his own fathers, and then they were running onto the train.

They quickly found an empty compartment, and ducked into it. Harry looked flustered, and he immediately stared out the window as the train pulled away from the station. He looked nervous all of a sudden.

“Hopefully no one decides to sit with us,” he muttered, still watching the station disappear.

Draco frowned at his friend and leaned forward in his seat. “Are you alright, Harry?”

Harry looked away from the window and slumped forward.

“What?” he asked, looking up at Draco with frustration. “Did you not read the papers?”

 


	5. Draco Malfoy and the Train Ride to Hogwarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you catch any dumb typos, I'm so sorry. I'm back to having to type on my cell phone, which is MUCH less efficient. :(

"What papers?" asked Draco. 

"This morning's  _Prophet,"_ Harry answered, his green eyes boring into Draco with a frantic intensity. "You mean you did't see it?"

"Clearly, I didn't," Draco answered drily, crossing his arms. Despite his demeanor, though, he was growong concerned for Harry. 

Iceland? Newspapers? What did it all mean?

Harry sighed and buried his face in his hands. 

"My da's are all in a twist because of that interview on my birthday," he explained. "When I was at the zoo speaking to snakes, they were talking with some reporter."

Draco winced at Harry's tone, thinking the other boy was sounding too hard on himself. 

"Not your fault," he pointed out carefully. 

"It's not," Harry agreed, setting his hands on his lap. "But somehow, that reporter found out about the Parseltongue."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "But what about the interview?" he pressed, feeling anxious. None of this was good. 

"Probably saving it for later," Harry growled bitterly. "But those stupid photos with Lockhart? They put up more of those." 

"Is this Father's fault?" Draco asked. "He was worried Moony would be mad... Will he?"

Harry looked up sharply. "I don't think so," he answered. "Look, the photos are Lockhart's fault, and I doubt your father told anyone about the Parseltongue. But we'll figure it out."

Draco only frowned and stared out the window for a long moment. He wasn't sure if he liked that answer either. 

And then there was a banging on their compartment door, and they saw Hermione. She slid the door open. 

"Harry!" she cried. "I saw the papers. Are you alright?" She immediately sat down and wrapped him in a hug. 

Draco leaned back, feeling a bit out of the loop and uncomfortable. 

"I'm fine," Harry grunted as she pulled off of him. "I mean, we'll see what happens once we're at school, but it can't be that bad..." 

He didn't seem too certain. 

"How is it that you read the paper and I didn't?" Draco demanded. Nothing was making sense, and that was the first thing on his mind.

Hermione turned to look at him and tilted her head. "Hello to you, too," she muttered. "And I don't know, Draco. Do you typically?"

That flustered Draco, and he turned his cheek to avoid looking at them, choosing instead to watch the green landscape whizzing by. 

"I just thought Father might have mentioned it," he murmured in response. "Though he seemed a little put off. Perhaps that was why."

Harry sighed loudly. "Well, I'm glad I was the one to tell you," he admitted. "It was pretty bad."

"What'd they say?" asked Draco, worried for any slander that moght have been written. Isn't that what they had been worried about?

"It was a load of hippogriff hair," Harry huffed in response. "Just that I tried to free the snake and terrify muggles."

Draco's eyes widened. "You don't think the Ministry will get you in trouble, will they?" 

"It all seems likely, or so says Moony." Harry frowned and ran a hand through his wild hair. "It's terrible that they waited until the day we came back..."

Hermione had a thoughtful look on her face. "Did they mean to do that?"

"Probably," Draco grumbled. He had heard enough from Father and Moony alike to know that the papers were wretched. 

"Well, I suppose we'll see how many people read it when we get to school," Harry said, seeming to have resigned to his fate.

* * *

The rest of the train ride was mostly uneventful. It seemed as though most people were avoiding their cabin, and the people who did past didn't even seem to notice that they were there. They seemed to be invisible to everyone else, and it was unnerving. 

The only people who paid them any notice were the first years, who would spot Harry and freeze, staring for a long astonished moment at his scar. 

Then, Draco would sneer at them, or Harry would look away, or Hermione would smile brightly. Or all three.

About halfway through, they got treats from the old woman and the cart, and that was when Hermionr nabbed some chocolate frogs and ran back to her Ravenclaw friends. 

"Ravenclaws." Draco rolled his eyes and bit off the head of his chocolate frog, accidentally biting into the card inside. He pulled it out and saw he had smeared chocolate teeth marks along a picture of the Headmaster. 

"Who'd you get?" Harry asked him, pulling out his own card from his frog. "I got Merlin. Second one of that."

Draco huffed. "Dumbledore," he grumbled, flippantly throwing the card to the side. "Considering that most people who collect the cards go to Hogwarts, you'd think they'd print less of him. It gets boring."

Harry laughed and bent over to pick up the card. "Sell it to a muggleborn first year," he suggested with a smirk. 

Sometimes, Harry had the brightest ideas. 

But Draco was deep in thought, far past pondering the wonders of Harry Potter. He didn't want to make the worry etch back onto Harry's face, but the card got him thinking. 

"Do you think Dumbledore will be on your side?" he inquired. "I know that he's very against Dark... But you're not Dark. He can't do anything, can he?"

Harry ser his jaw and looked out the window, looking concerned again. 

"I'll be alright," he said quietly. "And if I'm not, Moony will jump in and do something smart. And Padfoot will do something stupid, but it will be well-intended." A smile quirked at the corner of his lips, and Draco couldn't help but smile, too. 

Harry understood the importance pf family, the value of their support. It was a lesson so ingrained into him as a Malfoy, and yet he didn't think he had learned as well. 

Maybe he would have to take a page out of Harry's book. 

Then again, Harry's parents weren't widely hated by wizarding society. Would he be so confident then?

"Come on," said Harry. "We should change into our robes now. We're getting close." 

Draco glanced out the window and noticed a familiar mountain. So, they were getting close. 

About a half hour later, the train was slowing down, and they were loading off at Hogsmeade. It was already a little dark out, because of the cool, dark clouds splayed across the sky overhead. He thought that rain might be coming, and he wondered how the First Years would feel going across the Lake.

There was plenty of bustle, and there seemed to be more people than the last time around. Draco was thoroughly overwhelmed, to say the least. Maybe his head was still spinning in worry, or he was less focused on the glory of his first day at Hogwarts this time around. 

They found Blaise and Theo after several minutes of searching. They'd both shot up an inch or two over the summer, but they were still the same. They eagerly greeted them.

"Carriages are this way!" Theo called, waving them over. 

At first, all Draco saw were the carriages, which were rather magnificent--though not in the way that Father would consider magnificent. They were large and impressive, but they weren't fine or beautiful. 

But those paled in comparison to the magnificent beasts pulling them. They were not beautiful or fine, but they were large, powerful, muscular things. They were not quite unlike horses, though only if horses were made out of thin, stretched leather. 

Draco gasped and stumbled to a stop. Beside him, Harry did as well. 

"Just look at those things," he whispered. 

"What _are_ they?"

"Come on, you dolts!" Blaise called. "They're just carriages. Get in."

They hurried after them, pulling themselves up into the tall carriages. 

"Come on," Harry muttered. "Not just carriages. Those things pulling it are weird. Didn't you think?"

Draco nodded in agreement, but Blaise and Theo stared at them as if they'd both sprouted their own fleshy wings.

"There's nothing pulling the carriage besides magic," Theo said slowly.

"How could you not have noticed them?" Draco demanded, feeling more than a little flustered. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Blaise said gravely. 

Draco and Harry exchanged a look. 

"They're pranking us," Draco whispered. 

Harry rolled his eyes. "Not funny," he grumbled. 

Theo shrugged. "Whatever," he answered carefully. "Change of topic. Anything interesting in the paper this morning? Mum wouldn't let me read it."

Harry just groaned and stared out the window. Draco felt quite inclined to do the same.

* * *

The Great Hall was buzzing with excitement. Everyone seemed so caught up in the new year that Harry didn't recieve as much attention as they had worried about. 

Though, not everything was at rights. The Slytherin table was quieter than usual, and several strange glances were thrown Harry and Draco's way as they were sitting down. 

"Think they know?" Draco whispered to Harry.

"Know what?" Blaise demanded, sitting down between them. 

Harry ignored him and nodded, and then the Hall fell silent as Dumbledore stood and addressed the school.

"Good evening, students! I hope your brains haven't gotten too empty this summer. But even if they have, there's so much to learn this year! We must keep our wits about us. After all, you never know what unexpected turns life can throw at you.

"Speaking of surprises, you first years look a little drenched. Once you get Sorted, you might want to ask an older classmate to help you with a drying charm... Those older students should also have the sense to tell you the basic rules that I would like to remind you all of: the Forbidden Forest is still forbidden, it is still against the rules to leave your dorms past curfew, and _try_ to leave magic in the classrooms." The Headmaster winked as he said that, and Filch crossed his arms and sneered.

"With that, I will leave you to the Sorting Hat, and of course, let's all have a wonderful, safe year at Hogwarts."

Dumbledore sat down, and the hat was brought out and placed on the bench. 

Draco tuned out and ignored it, focusing on twirling his fork in his fingers. He wondered what the Headmaster had meant when he warned to keep their wits about them. He also wondered if the Fourth Floor was still forbidden, and how much of those warnings were directed at him and Harry. 

The Sorting began, and he didn't really recognize any of the new students. Besides the Weasley girl that he had given the books to--she was in Gryffindor with the rest. A blond girl was sorted into Ravenclaw and sat right next to Hermione and waved at him and Harry, which was curious. 

The Feast began, and Draco realized he had missed Hogwarts food over the summer. It wasn't like Moony's hot drinks or Padfoot's spicy creations, and nor was it the delicate fare that Mother's house elves prepared. 

It had it's own bit of homey charm. 

Blaise and Theo continued to interrogate them, of course. 

"Something's got you down, Harry," Blaise said as he ate his second helping of pudding. "You and Draco both are acting very strange."

Draco looked away and stared at his half-eaten plate. He doubted Blaise knew Harry was a Parseltongue, though Theo might have figured it out. It wasn't his to tell, anyway. 

"Draco," Theo said warningly. "You know something."

"I didn't read the papers, if that's what you mean!" he blurted out, mostly unintentionally. He realized his mistake, however, when Theo smirked and crossed his arms.

"So it is the paper, then," he murmured, returninf to his plate of greens. 

Blaise frowned. "I'm going to ask someone what's in the papers if you don't tell."

"Who will you ask?" Harry demanded bitterly, dropping his fork. "Parkinson? If she knows, she's probably told half the school."

All of them immediately looked over to Parkinson, who was sipping at her pumpkin juice as Millicent Bulstrode spoke quietly to her. Parkinson seemed to have lost her bark and bite that she had over the summer.

"Bet you I could ask Millicent," Blaise pointed out challengingly. "My mother is friends with her."

Theo was staring at the Ravenclaws. "Hermione won't tell, will she? Not us, anyway..." He peered over at the Gryffindor table, and a smirk appeared on his lips. 

Draco at once realized what was going through his mind, and was thoroughly against it. Harry caught on, too, and they were both beginning to plead desperately. 

"Don't be a bad example for the first years," said Draco. 

"They won't tell you nicely," Harry added. 

"Then tell us!" Blaise retorted, but even though they were both considering it, it was too late.

Theo had already gotten up and was marching towards Neville, and Blaise grinned deviously and followed after him. 

"At least they're friendly with Neville," Draco murmured. 

* * *

As expected, they weren't granted much sleep after their friends found out. 

"I knew it!" Theo crowed. "After seeing what happened with that snake in the zoo, I just knew."

Blaise was jittering with excitement. "I can't believe you talk to snakes, Harry! Why didn't you tell me?"

Even Crabbe and Goyle were interested, because of course they had been raised knowing that Parseltongues were Dark.

Harry took it in stride, but Draco didn't want to hear it. He buried his head under his pillow and tried to block it out, wishing for nothing but silent sleep.

He had forgotten how much he disliked sleeping in the dorm.  


	6. Harry Potter and the Idiotic Defense Teacher with the Ridiculously Pretty Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco may or may not have a hero-crush on the new Defense Teacher, and Harry may or may not be pissed about it for various reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some perspective switches in this chapter. I think you'll all like this one, though.

Harry awoke long before Draco did, for once. He was still getting used to the strange sleep schedule he'd had camping in Iceland. 

He crawled out of bed and tiptoed out. Draco would be up before long, and would most likely know where to find him. He would be at breakfast. 

He wasn't used to the cold of the dungeon, but it felt surprisingly like home. He cast a glance out the common room window--no fish, just some sea grass--and went on his way.

The portraits were still dozing, even though it was seven in the morning. It made the walk to the Great Hall seem lonelier than normal. Usually, things were more awake when he got up.

Most of Ravenclaw Table was full, and a good portion of Slytherin. Gryffindor looked sparse, and there wasn't a single Hufflepuff. 

He spotted Hermione at the Ravenclaw table, sipping a glass of pumpkin juice and reading her copy of _Wanderings with Werewolves_. Harry suppressed his scowl as he saw the book; he had tried to read it with Padfoot and Moony, but the latter had gone stone-still at the depiction of werewolves and the former had thrown the book against the wall.

"Good morning," he said, sliding into the seat across from her. None of his other friends were up yet, and he didn't fancy sitting alone with Parkinson at the Slytherin table. 

"Hello," she said absently. "How are things going? With that wretched article and all."

"Fine," he answered. He cleared his throat as he poured a goblet of pumpkin juice. "What do you think of the book, then?"

Hermione looked up for a moment and grinned. 

"It's amazing," she hummed. "He's so bold! I love it."

Harry suppressed a gag. "He's not that great. I mean, look at how he treats the werewolves..."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "He was defending himself, Harry! Werewolves are ruthless."

"Not all of them...." Not his Moony. He couldn't say that, though. She didn't know.

Luckily, the topic was not pursued any futher, as they were interrupted.

"Harry! You got up without me!" Draco's insistent voice called across the hall. 

Harry spun around to face him, warmth filling his chest. "Couldn't sleep. You get up without me, anyhow." He didn't mean to sound nagging. He didn't mind that Draco was an early riser.

Draco shrugged and pointed in Hermione's general direction. "Fair. Are we sitting at the wrong tables now?"

"You can go," Hermione said blandly. "I'm trying to read." She waved a hand nonchalantly over her book.

"Fine," Harry sighed, glaring at the book. "Do we have first period together?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Herbology. But we have Defense together this year, and that's next!" 

Harry groaned. "Oh, fantastic. You two can swoon at Lockhart together." He was quite sick of it already.

Draco crossed his arms and made a face. "Malfoys do not swoon."

Harry swung his legs over the bench and got up to move to his own table. "I doubt there are rules about that."

Draco turned bright red. "At least I'm not as bad as her! Her schedule had hearts around all of Lockhart's lessons--did you see?" he cried petulantly.

"Takes one to know one," Harry snickered good naturedly. It was quite obvious Draco was as much of a fangirl as Hermione was.

"Let's just eat breakfast and get to class," Draco murmured, looking dejected.

Hermione absently waved them goodbye and returned to her book.

They took their time eating, and then left for Herbology. Blaise and Theo followed behind, chattering about Quidditch. 

"I think I'm going to try out for Seeker," Harry cut in. "James was. Padfoot said I should try." He had been thinking about it for a while, actually. He had even fit in some practice over vacation.

"Really, Harry? Slytherin's already got a decent Seeker, and you're only a second year," said Blaise, furrowing his brow. 

"Well, are you trying out for anything?" Harry retorted, slightly hurt. Weren't his friends supposed to support him?

"Of course!" Blaise cried defensively. "But I don't think I'll get a position. Besides, luck is not on your side, considering that you're the _Golden Boy_."

"Golden Boy?" Draco repeated curiously.

Harry was just as curious. He didn't think he'd heard that one yet.

"The Gryffindors have been calling him that lately," Theo chimed in. "Any excuse to mock him. I wonder when they'll catch wind of the Parseltongue thing...."

"Longbottom hasn't told a soul," Blaise added, smiling slightly.

"Of course he hasn't." Harry let out a loud sigh. He could trust Neville. "But I really don't want to think about it." He already had enough to worry about, nevermind immature Gryffindors. 

They drifted into silence when they were approaching the greenhouses, but something else caught Harry's eye that made him forget about Herbology.

Gilderoy Lockhart, in bright cyan athletic clothes, was jogging along the pathway. Not a single lock of hair was out of place, and it shone gloriously in the morning light. His clothes were not quite wizard and not quite muggle, and they probably cost more than the entire reading list had. 

And Harry was not at all pleased to aee him.

"Harry!" he called as he approached. "Harry Potter! What a surprise _running_ into you here! On my run! I was meaning to talk to you!"

Draco stopped in his tracks and looked awestruck. "Why are you running?" he inquired. 

Lockhart slowed to a stop, though he continued jogging in place. He looked like a rabbit, hopping up and down. "To stay fit, my boy!" he exclaimed merrily. "I can't let teaching life make me any less able  to run from boggarts--and, it makes my body look marvelous as well!" He winked shamelessly at them.

Harry rolled his eyes, because one didn't run from boggarts, and it was sickening how enamoured Draco looked. It was probably the hair, he thought. Lockhart's hair was too pretty. Of course Draco would like it.

He self-consciously ran a hand through his own unruly hair. He hadn't even bothered with it today.

"What was it you wanted, Professor?" he asked, noticing that Blaise and Theo had kept on walking without them.

"To have a word," replied Lockhart. "I was busy with my run, and it's usually best to keep going, but I'll make an exception for you, Mister Potter. Care to chat? I can talk to dear old Pomona if you're late--she loves me."

Harry sighed and was about to answer, but Draco shoved forward. "He would love to!" he proclaimed, grinning up at the professor with bright, hopeful eyes.

Lockhart smiled obliviously. "Well, then hurry along, blond one. I'll talk to Harry."

Draco blinked in surprise, and other than looking dismayed, he was apparently unperturbed. "Tell me what he says," he whispered as he walked away. 

Harry watched resignedly as his best friend abandoned him. So, he would be left to face the barmy professor all on his own. He sighed, and looked up at the professor. 

Lockhart slung an arm around Harry's shoulders, and he wasn't even sweating. It was infuriating.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," he began, slowly walking along. "I read the article about you. Front page stuff. I saw it, and I said to myself, this poor boy has it bad." He clucked his tongue. "Parseltongue, Harry? Really?"

Harry winced. It was the last thing he wanted to talk about, and the professor was clearly making the wrong assumptions. "I would rather we don't--"

"Ah, ah! Let me talk. I saw it, and I said to myself, 'Gilderoy, you've created a monster!'" He tutted again and shook his head wryly. "I gave you that one taste of fame, that one photograph, and you couldn't stop yourself."

Harry was very, very confused. "That happened before the photograph, sir. It was just published now."

"Ah ha! A nice tactic, but still, Harry... I know how alluring fame must be, but you shouldn't be grasping for it now!" He stretched a hand into the air and grasped dramatically at the sun. "When I was twelve, I was nothing, just like you. Of course, you have that Boy Who Lived thing, but that's pixie turds compared to what I've got."

Harry frowned at the analogy. "I don't follow, sir."

"What I'm saying, Harry, is that you don't need to try so hard. Fame will come, but don't worry about it. And don't steal my spotlight!" He laughed stiffly. "There can only be so many famous people at Hogwarts, you know."

"I'm not trying to get attention," Harry growled, growing more angry. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, Harry! You can't just go around making up stories about having Dark powers! For Merlin's sake, I know you're a Slytherin, so at least do what I do and tell people about good things!" Lockhart withdrew his arm and gave Harry an exasperated look.

Harry blinked in shock. He hadn't realized Lockhart was so dense. But then again... Of course he would think that.

"It's not something I made up, and I don't want people knowing about it," he replied, trying to keep his voice down.

"Really?" Lockhart challenged. "Prove it! Talk to this snake!" He pulled out his wand and pointed at a nearby twig. 

The twig twitched a little, and the lower half of it looked a little scaly, but it wasn't much. 

"They have to be real, I think," Harry answered dryly. 

Lockhart crossed his arms and looked flustered. "You should go to class. We can test this later."

"Yes sir." Harry took no time in walking away.

As he entered the greenhouse, he heard Professor Sprout say, "Now, these mandrakes are only seedlings, so their cries won't kill you. However, they will knock you out for several hours, so you must wear earmuffs."

Harry darted in next to where Draco was waiting. 

"Ear muffs?" he asked as Draco handed him a pair.

He was grateful he wouldn't have to talk about Lockhart if they couldn't hear each other. 

He barely paid attention as they were planting the curiously humanoid plants. All he could think about was how much he was dreading next period Defense class.

Worst of all, Draco was going to love it.

* * *

"Well, good morning, class!"

Professor Lockhart stood in front of the class, looking even more fabulous than he had during his run that morning. He was smiling brightly, showing off his flashy teeth, and he was remarkably dressed. He spoke to the classroom with such confidence, and Draco already knew this year would be brilliant. 

Lockhart was brilliant. 

"He's such a ponce," Harry whispered next to him. 

Draco elbowed him in annoyance. "Why would you say that? Just look at him." How could Harry _not_ adore him? 

"What about him?" Harry grumbled. "I bet you he just uses glamour charms."

"You've just been listening to Moony," he muttered bitterly, fixing his attention on the impressive man at the front of the classroom. 

"Now, I hope you've all done the reading over the summer," Lockhart said, strutting out from behind his desk. "But if you haven't, that's alright. I can tell you everything you need to know about me."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Why doesn't he just break out into song already?"

Draco ignored him and shared an eager glance with Hermione. Blessedly, they had Defense with the Ravenclaws that year. 

He and Hermione both had done the reading, of course, but they were both just as eager to listen. 

"Be quiet and listen, Harry," Hermione shushed him. "Did you even do the reading?"

"Of course not," Harry grumbled. "Moony said it was rubbish."

"Well, my mother liked it," Draco countered. Father hadn't appreciated it, though. 

He tuned in again as Lockhart began talking, pacing around the classroom. 

"I am, as you know, Gilderoy Lockhart. I've earned a Third Class Order of Merlin, and I'm an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League--but honorary doesn't make it any less important, mind you." He swept his gaze around the classroom and shot them a smile. 

Draco--were he a girl, he assured himself--might have swooned. Lockhart had a kind of charm that was even more impressive than the Malfoy grace. It was captivating. 

"And, of course, this smile has won awards four times in _Witch Weekly_! But I don't talk about that--smiles don't kill banshees!"

Draco, who found Lockhart quite funny, was the only person to laugh. It earned him a dirty look from Harry. 

"Now, because this is a class, there will be a quiz! I hope you're all prepared."

"Thank Merlin," Harry muttered. "Something educational."

Hermione snorted. "Since when have you cared about that?"

Lockhart flicked his wand, and parchment appeared on each of their desks. Draco immediately lightened up when he saw the questions. 

They were all about Professor Lockhart. 

From behind him, Theo snickered. "Look, Draco, a defense quiz you'll do well on!" 

"Hey!" Draco protested. 

Harry was laughing, too, but Hermione was frowning. At least she was on his side.

"You have thirty minutes to start. Now, go!"

The quiz was easy for Draco. He thought he knew most of the questions' answers, and those he didn't he was sure he could just guess. He already felt as though he knew the man personally. 

Lockhart was the ideal person--charismatic, intelligent, handsome... _brave_. Draco wanted to be like that. 

He didn't understand what Harry's issue with him was. Perhaps he was just jealous. Or still upset about the Parseltongue article?

He diverted himself from thinking about those questions by answering the ones on the paper.

Half an hour later, Lockhart took all the quizzes and skimmed them over in front of the class.

"Oh, dear--hardly any of you remembered my favorite color was lilac! I explicitly said so in _Year with the Yeti_."

Draco cursed silently. "I put down lavender," he muttered. 

"Half credit, I'm sure," Blaise answered consolingly. He was smirking, though.

"I think you need some of you to reread Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully--I said there that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magical and non magical beings!"

He winked at them, and Draco sighed. It really would be an excellent gift. How ideal Lockhart was...

Harry was scowling throughout the entire thing, and Blaise and Theo seemed to think everything was utterly hilarious. Hermione seemed to be the only other one with any sense, and she was listening with rapt attention. 

Of course, that paid off for her when Lockhart mentioned her. 

"...but, oh! Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil--and, of course, to market my own line of hair products!" He laughed jovially and flipped the paper over. "In fact, she got full marks! Where is Miss Granger?"

Hermione turned bright red and raised a trembling hand. 

"Brilliant!" Lockhart beamed. "In fact, I think I know you... A friend of Mister Potter, no?" His bright gaze fixed on Harry. "You choose your companions well. Ten points to  Ravenclaw, for Miss Granger's grades."

Draco grinned, even if his house didn't win any points. Lockhart just indirectly complimented him!

And then, Lockhart bent down to grab something behind his desk. He lifted out a large, covered cave onto it. 

"Now, watch yourselves. It's my task to arm you against the foulest magical creatures! This class may force you to face your greatest fears, but let that not be a point of contention! I will be here to protect you. Please, all I ask is to stay calm."

Draco lost his train of thought for a moment. He wondered if he might learn to speak so poetically one day. 

But then he noticed the tense air in the classroom. His friends' laughter had sobered, and even Harry was peering at the cage with interest. Draco straightened himself in order to get a better look. 

"Now, you must remember not to scream," Lockhart said, his voice gone low and serious. "It might provoke them."

Everyone held their breath, and Lockhart pulled away the cover with a flourish. 

"Yes, my pupils," he said dramatically, "these are _freshly_ _caught cornish pixies_." 

Theo managed to stifle his snort, but Blaise had never been so contained. He let out a bark of laughter so loud that Draco winced in sympathetic embarrassment. 

Of course, Lockhart picked up on it.

"Hmm?" He smiled warmly at Blaise. 

Theo cut in for him. "Well, it's just that, well--they're not very dangerous, sir." 

"Don't be so sure!" Lockhart said warningly, waving a finger.

Draco began to try and remember everything he knew about pixies. Were they dangerous? He had seen them once or twice in the garden--bright blue, about the size of one of his mother's shoes, and very noisy. In fact, they were being very raucous now. 

He wasn't the expert, so if Lockhart said they were dangerous, he would believe him. 

"Right, then," Lockhart continued, having to raise his voice. "Let's see what you can make of them!"

He opened the cage, and Draco suddenly felt very afraid. 

It was as if he had opened Pandora's box. The pixies were everywhere, chattering and screeching as they rocketed around. Several had lodged themselves in Hermione's hair, and about a dozen were attempting to pull Vincent Crabbe into the air. 

Most, however, were intent on wrecking the classroom. Ink wells, windows, chairs, signed copies of _Wanderings with Werewolves_ \--nothing was safe. 

"Come on now, you said it yourself! They're only pixies! Round them up!" Lockhart's voice was hardly soothing amidst the chaos, and Draco actually felt frustrated as he had to dodge one of the things. 

Lockhart lifted his wand in the air, and for a moment Draco thought all would be well, but his spell had absolutely no effect. In fact, one of the pixies took his wand, and it was out the window. 

Vincent was being carried into the air by now, and Gregory Goyle was pulling on his ankle. One final yank brought them both toppling to the ground, and Lockhart had to duck as the angered pixies went straight towards him. 

The bell rang, and everyone rushed to the door. The room was somewhat calmer with the other students gone, sans the pixies, which were still having their fun. 

Lockhart's head popped up from behind his desk and saw tha Draco, Harry, and Hermione were still there. 

"Well, why don't you three get the rest of them back into their cage?" he asked breathlessly. "You seem like a good, talented bunch." He ran past them and shut the door behind him. 

Harry blinked and turned to face him and Hermione. 

"What was that?" he roared. "Did you _see_ that? Can you believe him?" 

Draco shrugged and drew his wand. "It's better than Quirrel and Peeve's color bomb incident."

"And we get hands-on experience," Hermione added helpfully. 

"Who knows!" Draco chirped. "We might win his favor. Won't that be great?"

Harry rolled his eyes and swatted away a pixie. "You can have all the favor he gives me. All he cares about is fame."

"That's not true!" Draco cried. 

"Have you even read his books, Harry?" Hermione demanded. "Think of all the things he's done--selfless, brave things--"

"Claims he's done!" Harry interrupted, grabbing a pixie by the middle with fast reflexes. It tried to bite him, but he shoved it into the cage, which was lying on the floor. 

"Did you even read his books, Mione? He talks about werewolves like they're monsters." He had a sour look on his face, and Draco realized why Harry was so upset. 

"Harry, it's not like--"

Hermione cut him off. "So? They are! One nearly bit his arm off! They're beasts!"

Draco grimaced as Harry shot her a dark look. 

"Shut up, Granger," he muttered, clearly more upset than usual. "Let's just petrify all of them andput them in their cages." 

Draco watched in distress as Harry raised his wand cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on each of the pixies. He joined in nervously with a stunning spell Father had taught him, but Hermione was more hesitant. 

She helped pick them up and put them in the cage. Harry slammed the door shut and un-petrified them. 

"Let's go, Draco."

Draco threw an apologetic look at Hermione, and was dragged out the door by his bitter best friend. 

 


	7. Draco Malfoy and the Wonders of Quidditch Try-Outs

Those first few weeks were utter chaos.

Hermione was distant and a little glum-looking, and could be found reading _Wanderings With Werewolves_ at the Ravenclaw table every morning. That seemed to bother Harry immensely, and he mostly ignored her. Any mention of the book or Lockhart sent him into a downward spiral of moodiness.

Even worse, however, was the attention that Harry seemed to be garnering from the older Slytherins. They watched him curiously, whispered about him, though they never dared to approach. They looked at him as though watching for any signs of him being a Dark Lord, ready to pounce and report back to their parents.

Draco wouldn't have picked up on it had it not been for Snape, who slyly warned Harry not to let all the attention to get to his head. That made Draco want to ask more questions about how exactly Death Eaters thought, but it had set Harry off into a rather angry mood.

The first week was busy anyhow, and Draco tried not to worry about Harry too much. He seemed to be handling things well, Hermione and the homework and the article aside. 

The only thing that really got to Draco was the constant mutterings about Lockhart. Harry seemed to hate him more with every lesson (though Draco was experiencing the opposite effect), and mentioning anything to do with newspapers and Lockhart in one sentence seemed to set him into a brooding silence. 

So, Draco made a silent compromise. He would enjoy listening to Lockhart's stories shamelessly--oh, if only Draco could tell stories so well!--and he wouldn't bring it up around Harry. They didn't do Defense homework together, which was a shame, but Draco was confident they both had a good grasp on the subject matter. 

The other homework was worse. The second day in, Snape had already assigned an essay that, put on parchment, was taller than him, and McGonagall was even stricter than last year. They griped together about History of magic and got help from Theo. Even Blaise proved to have some superior ability when it came to Herbology, which was beneficial when Neville wasn't around.  

But the most cameraderie they had between them was when they were talking about Quidditch. 

Theo and Blaise claimed to have decided to not try out, though they "would be sure to be there." Both Harry and Draco were determined to try out, however--even if it meant waking at the crack of dawn.

Or, so they had claimed before that morning. 

"Rise and shine, Malfoy," Harry announced. "Quidditch!"

Draco had his eyes closed, and he was determined to get in a few last minutes. He squeezed his eyes shut even more and groaned, wishing for Harry to leave him be. 

Then, he smelled something rancid, and opened his eyes to see Harry was very close and breathing in his face. 

His heart jumped in surprise and he immediately sat up, knocking heads with Harry. 

"Potter!" he groaned, shoving him away. "Keep your filthy breath away from me! Did you eat rotten flesh before going to bed?"

Harry was clutching his forehead, treacherously close to his scar, but he was still smirking. 

"Maybe Parseltongues do that," he snickered. 

"Don't make jokes of that," Draco whispered. He seemed to be taking it much more seriously than Harry was. He was clearly taking a page out of Padfoot's book, being so cheery about this. 

"Come on, Draco," Harry said. "It's Saturday, and we've tryouts. Let me be light." 

Then, there was a loud, grumpy noise coming from the bed across from Draco's. 

"Silence, you morning doves," Theo moaned. "I don't want to listen to you two sing at each other."

Draco threw his pillow at him. "Let's wash up," he said to Harry, "and then we'll get breakfast."

"And get to the pitch early!" Harry added with a grin, already halfway out the door. 

Draco hardly paid attention to his morning routine. It all seemed so menial in comparison to the excitement of the task ahead. He was already thrumming with excitement he had just about forgotten ever since the Neville incident, when he had flown up in an attempt to save him. 

It was different than flying at home. Flying at Hogwarts was thrilling, like he had something to prove, something to say. He wanted nothing more than to make it onto the team, to be able to fly in front of everyone.

He had at first thought he wanted to be Seeker--he and Harry had both played at it when they were younger, and it was always great fun. Harry had always been the better player, though, and Draco wanted them both to be on the team rather than one.

So, he decided not go for Seeker. But what else was there? He wasn't big enough to be a Beater, and Keepers were usually older. 

"Do I try out for Chaser?" he wondered aloud as they were walking down to the pitch. 

The air was cold for early September, and the sky was clear and still. A perfect day for flying. It was still early, though (the sun was hardly up), and there was a chance winds could pick up later. 

Harry's step faltered just a bit. "Not Seeker?" he inquired, clearly trying to sound more nonchalant than he really was. In fact, he looked like he was about to smirk. 

"No," Draco answered cautiously. He didn't want to admit to Harry being the better Seeker. "We would fight over it. Besides, wouldn't I make a good Chaser?"

A mysterious smile appeared on Harry's face. "Are you sure?" he inquired. "Because I think you're a Keeper. Just think of last year!"

Draco frowned in confusion. "That was more chasing than keeping, Harry," he replied, thinking of how quickly he had to rise to catch Neville. 

"No," Harry replied decisively. "You're definitely a Keeper. You had to be rather quick to catch him, yeah?" 

"I suppose." Draco shrugged and focused on the ground ahead of him. "But isn't that spot taken?"

"Try-outs are open," Harry reminded him. "If you're better at it, then get it."

"If you're sure..."

He was hesitant, but of course he valued Harry's opinion over just about anyone else's. Even Lockhart's--in this case, at least.

They weren't the first ones at the pitch, though that was hardly a surprise. Several older students were already zipping around the air on the low-rate school brooms, shouting at each other and passing around the quaffle.

Draco swallowed nervously, and his feet barely allowed him to move another step. Overcome by nerves, his body was frozen and his head was racing with doubts. They were all much bigger and much faster than he was. How had he ever expected to make the team?

He felt Harry's hand on his shoulder, and he was washed over with a sense of warm familiarity. He  took a deep breath and sensation returned to the rest of his limbs. He forced a smile. 

"You've got this," Harry said, moving his hand to clap him on the back. "You're an amazinf flier."

Draco was flattered, but not at all convinced. 

"I've never played Keeper before," he replied, and it came out as a hoarse whisper. 

"You'll be _fine_ ," Harry insisted. He gave a reassuring smile and moved away to the broom shed. 

Draco faithfully followed after. A few minutes of warming up in the air couldn't hurt, after all. 

The broomshed was dusty and the wood door splintered as they pried it open. Draco couldn't fathom why the school would have such a shoddy building, but he didn't voice it in fear of Harry calling him a ponce.

He couldn't help himself when he saw the brooms.

"These are _Cleansweeps_ ," he grumbled. "We used these for flying classes. They can't expect the team to use these, can they?"

Harry snorted. "The brooms we've at our homes aren't much better," he pointed out. 

Draco couldn't help think that that was different. At home, it was recreational flying, and of course he didn't get a nice broom when he was just learning to fly.

"These are for the team, though," he insisted, picking up a broom sullenly. "We can't be expected to beat Gryffindor with these." He couldn't help but pull a sour place.

"Well, we've beat them nearly six years in a row now."

Draco started at the unfamiliar voice, and then saw Marcus Flint step into the shed. He was tall and wiry and watched them with narrowed eyes.

Draco, intimidated, hung back. Harry, on the otherhand, stepped forward and met his gaze.

"I guess you've got a good team going, then," he said cooly, crossing his arms. 

"We did," Flint said pointedly. "A lot graduated last year. We'll be starting from scratch." He gazed at Harry in a way that made Draco slightly uncomfortable. "We lost our Seeker. Think you'll try for that, Potter?"

"I was planning on it." Harry tilted his chin and stared back at Flint determinedly.

A smirk hinted at the older boy's lips. "Good," he muttered. "You're built for it. Slim, big hands. Let's see if the Golden Boy can handle it in the air, though."

Harry flinched a little at the name, but then Flint's gaze swung over and figuratively pinned down Draco. 

"And Malfoy," he murmured, taking a step forward and crossing his arms. He narrowed his eyes and seemed to take every detail of Draco's physique in. 

He didn't know if he liked being under that gaze--it was even more uncomfortable to be victim of it than just witness it. Flint's eyes were stony as he glared, but there was a mechanical look on his face that made it seem like he was calculating something. 

"You were the one who pulled that stint in Hooch's class, weren't you?" he inquired. "Fast reflexes. You're quick, aren't you, Malfoy? Small, but quick. A bit too impulsive to be Seeker. And your hands are all wrong."

Draco's mouth dropped open. "M-my hands?" he stuttered. 

Flint rolled his eyes. "If you want to be any good, try out for Keeper. Seeing as your friend here is clearly a Seeker." He spun around and exited the shack. "You two better be ready in ten minutes!" he called.

Draco blinked in confusion, and realized he was clenching the splintered handle of the broom. 

"That was odd," he muttered. 

He could hear Harry swallow. "I hope that's not how he makes all his decisions--on first glance and all that."

Draco nodded stiffly in agreement. They both clutched the school brooms and stepped back into the gray light of the early morning.

It didn't take long for them both to kick up into the air. Draco felt his soul catch in his throat with that first breath of higher air, and the first thing he did was fly up as high as he could. Higher than Father would usually allow. It was colder, and the air was thinner, but it felt like liquid ice and courage within him. 

He zigzagged across the pitch, while he watched Harry swoop in circles and figure-eights. He seemed to be in his own world of bliss as well. 

It felt as though it had only been seconds in the air when he heard Flint's voice boom up at him. 

"Oi, you lot! Quit cluttering up the airspace, and get down! Do you want to be on this team or not?"

It pulled Draco back to reality quickly, and then he was zipping back down to the ground. He couldn't help think that it was a bit of a shame he wouldn't be able to fly like that if he was a Keeper. 

How wrong he was. 

It didn't take long for him to be up in the air again, guarding the hoops. He didn't have the same freedom that Harry did higher up, but he found he was kept plenty occupied trying to prevent the Quaffle from getting through any hoops. Those hoops were _big_ , and it took a lot of quick movement to defend them. 

The zigzagging motion was prevalent, and he was constantly waiting for the next pass. It was exhilarating--his heart was thudding rapidly in his chest, his mind felt sharp and quick, and his fingers dug into the rough wood of the broom. 

And then the Quaffle would fly at him, and it was mostly hands off the broom as he dove after it to catch it. He had never realized how much it was about hanging on with his legs, not his arms. 

He prevented the Quaffle from getting in six times, and the only time he missed it, it bounced against the rim and didn't actually go through. He didn't know how he managed to stay so focused when he spent so much time watching Harry look for the Snitch. 

He wasn't sure why he was watching him like that. Maybe it was envy? Or maybe he was proud of Harry. But it was worth it whenever they made eye contact. A flash of an assuring smile, and maybe a wink. 

It kept him going. 

When the game was over, they met on the ground and excitedly went to clap each other on the back and chatter about things like, "Did you see that?" and "Nice job with that one!" 

But that was not on for Flint. 

"Oi, pollywogs! Quit your nattering and get over here! Do you want to he on the team?"

They both shut up immediately, even Harry, and scurried over to where the rest of the students trying out were huddled around Flint. 

"Good work out there, all of you," Flint said. The compliment sounded dry out of his lips, and his eyes still looked hard and scrutinizing. "But, just as a reminder, being on the team last year doesn't assure you an in this one. So, don't try and duel me if you don't get in."

There was nervous chattering at that, but Draco and Harry exchanged sly grins. That was good news for them. 

"I shouldn't have to remind you that it will be tough against Gryffindor this year. Wood's determined to win and break our streak, and I can tell he's getting desperate." A sneer appeared on Flint's face. "Last year, he was so desperate, I reckon he would have brought a first year onto the team if it would have helped."

The group chuckled at that, but both Draco and Harry flushed furiously. What was wrong with first years? What about second years?

"Now, the lot of you did alright, considerinf I had four different games going. Congrats to Potter for catching the Snitch," Flint added, sending a wink Harry's way. There had been three other try-outs for Seeker, and Harry had been the only one to catch it. He was sure to make the team.

Draco, on the other hand, could not be so certain of his success. 

"Head back to the castle, you lot. I'll come talk to you by the end of the day if you've made the team."

There was a silent pause, and the group was about to pull apart when there was a loud shout. 

"Hey! What're Slytherins doing on our field?" 

Draco spun to face the sound. He saw a patch of Gryffindors approaching the field, lumbering along very much like a pride of lions. He saw that the source of the call had been a tall, dark-haired young man that seemed to be leading the group. 

"It's not yours, Wood," Flint growled, pushing aside the other Slytherins to march up to the other student. "We were just finishing up try-outs. Ever heard of them?"

The Slytherins chuckled at that. Everyone knew that Wood cherrypicked his team without even trying them first. 

"Our team is fine," Wood bristled, crossing his arms. "You'll not have us this year."

Flint laughed snidely. "Looks the same as last year to me. What makes you think you'll be so good?"

"Ravenclaw won both the House and Quidditch Cup last year, Flint. Don't act so high and mighty--you didn't win, either." Wood's arms were crossed, and somehow he had come to stand only inches away from Flint. They were glaring at each other furiously. 

"It was a close tie," Flint countered, his voice low. 

They continued staring each other down for a long moment, and Draco found himself watching the animosity in confusion. It was so intense, it halfway didn't seem like animosity. 

He wondered if he would ever be forced to hate someone like that. He couldn't even imagine trying to rival like that--not even with a Gryffindor. 

After all, who could possibly rival a Malfoy? Certainly not a Gryffindor. 

Harry might be able to compete well with him, but they were friends. That could never happen. 

One of the Gryffindors cleared their throats, and Draco recognized the twins. 

"Come on, Wood," said the first (Fred?).

"Forget them. We've practice," said the other (George?).

Wood's gaze flickered from Flint for a moment, and then he stepped back, still meeting his opponent's eye. 

"See you 'round, Flint," he replied coldly. 

The groups began to separate as the Slytherins dissipated and began going towards the castle. Hary and Drack began going, too, and they felt the Gryffindor gazes following them.

"Hullo, Harry," the twins said, stepping in their way. "Hullo, Draco," they added. 

"Hullo," said Harry cautiously. 

Draco said nothing. 

"On the Quidditch team this year, then?" one (definitely Fred) inquired. 

"That'll be exciting," George chuckled. "Be careful, though. We're Beaters, and we don't play easy on anyone."

It was easy to believe. The twins were stocky and strong, so of course they would be good Beaters. And given their tendency to cause mayhem, of course they would want to be the ones flinging heavy objects at other players.

"We'll keep that in mind," Draco answered, his voice slipping into a very Father-like drawl. He found himself using it whenever he felt confronted. It mads him sound more collected, he thought.

"Of course you will." The twind turned away from Draco and pinned their attention on Harry.

"We like you, you know," said George. "But we've a question."

Draco saw Harry swallow nervously. "What's that?" he inquired.

"We read the papers," Fred answered slowly, beginning to watch Harry like he was summing him up. "We wanted to know if it's true. If you're really Dark."

Harry visibly tensed at that, and it took most of Draco's willpower to keep him from flinching. He didn't like where this might go. The two Gryffindors would automatically assume that Parseltongue was Dark, which would turn them against him. And the twins were not an enemy anyone wanted to have. 

Harry seemed to take his time answering, which was unusual for him. He usually blurted out his answers without even thinking. 

Draco silently willed him to choose his words well. 

"I am a Parselmouth," Harry admitted. "But that doesn't make me Dark. I'm not like that. I would never use it to hurt people."

Draco released a relieved sigh. He felt the tension leave his shoulders.

Fred and George watched Harry intently for a moment, ignoring Wood's calls for them to join him on the field. 

"We believe you," George said at last. 

"We always thought you were a good sort," Fred added. 

And without another word, they turned away to go out onto the field. 

Draco exchanged wordless glances with Harry, and could see he was alright. They resumed walking back to the castle. 

"Think we made the team?" Draco asked casually.

* * *

That evening, Flint caught them in the common room on the way to the Great Hall. 

"Hey, pollywogs," he said as he strolled up to them.

Draco felt his heart jump. This could either be very good or very bad news. Or good news for Harry and bad news for Draco.

"Flint," said Draco, trying to sound cool.

Harry grinned openly at the older student. "Hullo."

Flint regarded them with raised eyebrows and a smirk, and he must have enjoyed keeping them on the edge like that. Draco felt as if he were on his tiptoes and leaning forward.

Then, at last, he spoke.

"Just wanted to greet my newest additions to the team," he said casually, smirking even more as Draco's face split into a grin and Harry let out an excited exclamation. 

"Yes!" Harry crowed, throwing an arm around Draco and hugging him aggressively.

Draco lost his train of thought and hugged Harry back, smiling so wide he wondered if his face might break.

"We sid it!"

Flint's quiet chuckle pulled them back to reality. 

"We haven't won the Cup yet, you know," he reminded them. "But I'm sure we will. That was superb flying--for second years. You'll want to improve before our first match, even if it's against Hufflepuff."

"When's practice?" Harry demanded eagerly. He had released Draco, and now his arm just hung lazily across his shoulders.

"First thing tomorrow," Flint answered. "And most days after school. I'll let you know." He lifted a hand in quick salute, and then walked away to find the other team members. 

Draco was buzzing with excitement, and the happiness made his head spin. He let out a relieved breath that turned into a shaky laugh.

"I should write Father. He'll be elated."

 


	8. Lucius Malfoy and the Existential Crisis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just Lucius planning and realizing shit and a dinner party with Remus and Sirius. You can probably skip this chapter if you're not terribly interested in this sort of thing. More of the boys later.

Lucius smiled as he opened Draco's letter. It had hardly been two weeks, and yet he was already missing the boy. It was even worse than the year previous. 

The first line was a joyous exclamation.

> _I made the team, Father! I'm the Keeper!_

Of course he had made the team. Though, Lucius hadn't been expecting Keeper. But that was alright. Harry had made Seeker, he discovered, which wasn't exactly surprising. He had seen the boys play together, after all. Harry was always a superb Seeker. 

He continued reading. 

> _I must admit, though, the team brooms are terrible..._ Cleansweeps,  _Father, really! You would think Slytherin could do better. They're all knobbly and splintery and so dreadfully slow.... But now that I'm on the team, I can bring a broom to Hogwarts. The broom I have at home is lovely, but I heard the Nimbus 2001 just came out, and this might be the perfect occasion...._

Lucius couldn't help but chuckle to himself. Draco was never shy with his wants, and he wore his heart on his sleeve. As a negotiator himself, Lucius knew it was something he should train out of the boy, but he felt bound to his promise to try and get over his Malfoy shields.

So, of course he would buy Draco a new broom. In fact, he decided he might as well buy the entire team new brooms. He wanted his son to enjoy a winning team, after all.

"Lucius!" 

He turned around to see his wife appear in the door of his study, a smile lighting her face. 

"Yes, darling?" he inquired. He had grown used to being on friendlier terms with her again. It was refreshing. He knew it could only last so long, though.

"Did Draco send you a letter as well? It says here he made the team." She showed him her own piece of parchment for a brief moment before snatching it back, reading it over again like it was more precious than it probably was.

"Of course." He pointed at the letter set on the desk. "It would seem new brooms are in order."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, but moved into the study and placed a hand on his shoulder to peer at his letter. She was quiet for a moment, but let out a curious hum.

"He mentioned Professor Lockhart in my letter," she commented, "but I see not in yours. He seems to be quite fond of him. I hope he's a good role model."

Lucius bit his tongue and chose not to say anything he might regret. Of course, he didn't believe that Lockhart was the best of role models--there was something decidedly off about the man. And anyone who had his face plastered on that many books had to be a conceited bastard.

Lucius secretly wished to have his face plastered on so many books.... Perhaps one day, when he was the Minister of Magic or the head of the Wizengamot, it might be true... But he could only dream.

After all, Dumbledore may have pushed Lucius into politics, but that didn't mean he would allow him to come to power.

"Did he mention the Headmaster at all?" he asked. He and Narcissa had not done much planning, but they were still cautiously on the lookout for anything Dumbledore-related. 

Narcissa's soft smile shifted minutely into a frown. 

"No," she admitted. "Though I think it's our job to worry about that. Not his."

Lucius could agree with that. The last thing he wanted was dragging their son into their politics. Or, at least, dragging him in any more than they could avoid. 

In fact, they really shouldn't have been dragging themselves into anything. Getting involved with Dumbledore--or Harry, even--would most likely be a bad idea.

He cleared his throat and decided to change the subject. Whenever he thought about that, his thoughts began to spiral down into a Dark rabbit hole, wondering about just how Dark Harry Potter was, just what Dumbledore was thinking by tempting Lucius with... with what? Did Dumbledore really know that Harry was Dark all along? And did he expect Lucius to do something?

"Yes, Lucius?" Narcissa inquired cooly, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. He jolted as he remembered he had been trying to shift the conversation.

"Oh." It was not often his thoughts made him get caught off guard. "I was only going to say that I'll need to send an order to Broomstix for eight of the new Nimbus 2001s. It will help with the team."

"You spoil him," she murmured. She was smirking.

"Nothing less than he deserves," he returned, picking up the letter again to read Draco's eager writing. "Besides, between the fortune and what I make at the Ministry, I think we can afford it."

"Sirius and Remus won't accept it," she reminded him.

"It's for the team. Not just Harry. He can have his own personal broom."

Lucius never understood the way their friends rejected "charity." Remus especially. It wasn't as though they needed it, and Lucius hardly gave for the sake of giving anyway. That was Narcissa's area.

"The howler will be your problem, not mine," she said curtly, crossing her arms.

"Remind me to invite them over for dinner," Lucius chuckled. "I would prefer to hear their argument in person."

Of course, she didn't need to remind him. They had already planned to have them over that weekend. It had become a near habit when the boys were gone the year previous, but they hadn't seen them since Lucius had caught a glimpse of the Lupin-Black couple at King's Cross.

When they came over for dinner, Lucius realized they would not be in the mood to banter over gifts and brooms. They looked tired. But as usual, they both played cheer and grinned greetings through sunken eyes and disheveled hair.

Narcissa picked up on it just as fast as he did, shooting him a warning glare as she ushered them to the dinner table. She skipped her usual grimace and _harrumph_  when the couple ignored her seating demands and sat next to each other and not across. She didn't even scowl when the two men held hands over the table.

Something was clearly wrong, and neither Narcissa nor Lucius was going to do anything to further aggravate them. The full moon was approaching, obviously, but that wasn't it.

Halfway through dinner, Narcissa gathered the nerve to ask.

"Is something amiss today?" she inquired casually while cutting at her steak.

Remus' eyes jerked up from the large hunk of steak he was aggressively stabbing at. It was red and bloody, just like he liked it.

"What makes you say that?" he growled, setting down the knife. Somehow, it just ended up sticking upright in the meat. 

"Everything's fine," Sirius cut in tactfully, though scratchy voice and slumped posture betrayed him. He was hardly the aggravating, bouncy, charming man that Lucius had grudgingly come to enjoy.

"Really?" Lucius asked, deciding he was done dancing around the topic. "Then I suppose you've both just suddenly come down with a severe case of insomnia?"

Remus' lower lip twitched, and he looked as though he was about to literally snarl. Lucius wondered if Remus actually was upset with him, contrary to Draco's insistence and Remus' own when they met briefly at the train station. He supposed that, perhaps, the werewolf might have grown bitter from the distance and decided to blame Lucius for his problems.

Sirius slid his hand into Remus' lap, which seemed to effectively still him (and silently irk Narcissa, but Lucius would ignore that). "Don't be sour, love. We can trust them."

Remus rolled his eyes. "I know that!" he barked. 

Sirius' hand recoiled, and he folded them on top of the table. "Bit close to that time of month. Sorry."

"Don't," Remus snapped, glaring at him dejectedly.

"I completely understand," Lucius said to Sirius, ignoring his wife's raised eyebrows. "But surely that isn't all."

"Of course not!" Remus exclaimed. He had resumed picking at his food and had cut off a large chunk of bloody meat. "Ever since that goddamned article was published, it would seem nothing can keep the reporters at bay!" He shoved the meat into his mouth, tearing at it aggressively.

Lucius cringed at the lack of etiquette. "I'm very sorry, you know. I can talk to my connections if need be. Make sure you're left alone."

"Fat lot of good that will do," Sirius cut in bitterly. "Do you know how often Dumbledore's said the same thing? It does _nothing_." 

"Nothing?" asked Narcissa. She was watching them with narrowed eyes, a familiar maternal worry creasing her face. "What exactly are they doing that they won't cease? I haven't seen any articles since the last..."

"That's because they're blackmailing us," Remus snarled, and he dropped his utensils with a clatter. "They're waiting for the right time to release it all. As long as we don't fight against them, as long as we let them snoop and take pictures, they promise not to publish slander."

Lucius had suddenly lost his appetite, and had to set down his glass lest he shatter it.

"They what?" He kept his voice calm.

"You heard him." Sirius crossed his arms and grimaced. "They're ruthless. Brutal. And there's nothing we can do."

Lucius felt his magic prick at his fingers, and a few Dark spells came to mind that he wouldn't at all hesitate to use on slimy reporters who resorted to blackmail. 

But he wouldn't, of course. Because he had Draco's well being to think about, and his own, considering the Headmaster's contract that bound him. He could imagine the spell flames so vividly, licking him away into ashes...

"And Dumbledore _can't_ do anything? Hasn't he bound you to secrecy all this time? Wouldn't he be jumping at the opportunity to assist you?" he demanded. He remembered hearing Remus in the beginning of their relationship, how closed off and secretive he was, always whispering about how privacy was best, how Dumbledore would do what he could. And Sirius, who bristled as his partner said it, who clearly craved the freedom of expression that their son also took to, but who was also bound to the logic that it really was the best thing to do.

And all the while, Lucius had watched in confusion, wondering exactly what kinds of and how many contracts Dumbledore had bound people with.

Remus scoffed, and there was no trace of the quiet, private man of before. Just from the look in his eyes, it was clear that he had lost all respect for the Headmaster, and it was clear that he craved to have that respect and that privacy again.

"Knowing him, he's most likely punishing us for coming out in the first place." He bit down hard on his lip before continuing. "He probably thinks we did this to ourselves. That we're getting what we deserve."

Lucius realized, then, just how bad the situation was. That was a very Sirius-sounding statement, which most likely meant the stress had driven Remus out of his typical logical state of mind.

"The old goat seems to have it out for us," Sirius added. "We've lost all favor. Doesn't help that Harry's in Slytherin--we got a very passive aggressive letter about that just last month. He seems to think we've done him wrong. That we've raised Harry wrong."

"He _what_?" Lucius stood up now, feeling rage boil inside of him, and his magic was gathering like frostbite at his fingertips. 

Of course Dumbledore would think that Harry had been raised wrong. He was a Slytherin, a Parseltongue--not at all the ideal blueprint of a Savior, of the Boy Who Lived. The Headmaster had had plans for the boy, and clearly, recent developments had spoiled that.

The irony of it all, Lucius thought. Remus had told him where Harry would be if not for Sirius' insistence at the beginning, and he knew that Harry was certainly a much happier child than he would ever be if he were raised by Muggles. Even Narcissa would understand that two gay wizards were better at raising a magical child than a group of filthy, inept muggles.

And of course, Dumbledore would blame it all gone wrong on the fact that Remus and Sirius had taken initiative to raise Harry instead of leaving him like an orphan. Of course he would abandon them when it hit the wind.

He hadn't realized that his magic had begun to swim around him like a storm, and didn't until he saw the look of fear plastered on Narcissa's face.

He hadn't seen that look on her face since before the contract. Since before Draco was born.

Last time his magic had gotten like that, he had killed a house elf and left Narcissa with some nasty, unintended wounds. And as much as he despised Dumbledore just then, he had to thank him for likely being the cause of his lack of aggressions.

In fact, he felt the frostbite at his fingers turn to a nipping fire, and he quickly retracted his magic at once. He was reminded that he was in no position to be enraged at the Headmaster, no matter what he did. He was too vulnerable, too tied to the man. He owed too much to risk blowing up like that, risk doing anything Dark.

And there was more irony in that. That Remus and Sirius, that Dumbledore's actions towards them, that even Harry Potter, would be the ones to draw him towards the idea of Dark magic again.

He felt his hands go slack with a sudden realization, and his gaze fell on the other occupants of the room. They were staring, and had most likely meant to say something, but he hadn't heard.

"My apologies," he whispered, his voice gone hoarse. "I should excuse myself now..."

And he slipped from the room without a word, his hands searing with heat, and he wondered if the burns would leave marks. His head spun with dangerous thoughts, and he knew at least that Dumbledore's contract could not punish him for those.

He hurried to his potions laboratory, where an assortment of completely harmless remedies and potions were placed carefully in shelves. Not a single Dark ingredient was on his shelf, and yet he could think of a thousand "Light-approved" potions he could make with them that would be more dreadful or malicious than many Dark potions.

As he rubbed a salve onto his hands that did nothing to soothe the burns, he began to wonder.

_Are these thoughts Dark if I aim them towards Light purposes? What if I could use my tendencies for good?_

_What if Dumbledore's side isn't the good side, just the winning side? What if there's more than just good people Death Eaters?_

_When did I begin to think with this strange binary?_

_Who am I to tell my son not to worry about being good or bad when I'm really caught up in all the same guilt?_

_Why did I ever agree to tie myself to Dumbledore's law? What if there was a better way?_

_Am I even doing the right thing?_

Just a decade ago, he wouldn't be contemplating morality like that. It was just between what would save his family, what would keep him living at the standard he had grown to enjoy, what would extend the Malfoy line.

Now, working in the Ministry, having been indoctrinated with new philosophies, having cut ties with the Death Eaters and other Dark associates that had seemed to shaped so much of his perspective back then, having made new friends and more people he cared about... he was thinking differently.

He would have once worried he would have just collapsed completely to Dumbledore's will, that he would have become a Light pansy.

And while, for a short time, that might have been so, it certainly wasn't now.

He had Dark magic, Dark abilities, Dark tendencies.

But so did Harry Potter.

And he didn't think Harry Potter was Dark.

Or, rather, he didn't think Harry Potter was inherently bad.

And Lucius wondered if he wasn't inherently bad himself. He had repented, lived a good life, done decent things to make up for the indecent ones. He had done things that were surely unforgivable, but he would never do them again.

But there were Dark things that weren't inherently bad. Healing potions that couldn't be made with Light ingredients, rituals that called for Dark magic that were essential to wizarding culture...

Slytherin saviors who spoke like snakes.

And there were traditionally Light wizards that did terrible things, like Peter Pettigrew. 

It wasn't all black and white, light and Dark.

Lucius wished he could have come to that realization before. He didn't have to be a slave to either a Dark or a Light leader. There were, naturally, other options. He had just been to lost to see it before.

He wryly realized that all along he had been looking for power and for safety, and yet he had been trying to achieve those things through other people. And through that, he had only tied himself down further.

He knew that, rationally, he kept a secure place for himself by remaining Dumbledore's ally. He was in too deep to go and do anything foolish and press his bounds. 

But there was a flicker of hope in him that there was more, and he found that a strange idea. He had thought he didn't need anymore.

He realized his hands were trembling, and he had forgotten about his guests in the dining room. He stood up to busy himself with something normal, something easy, something productive. 

He settled on making some potions. 

Nothing tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This needs to be edited. I need a beta.  
> Oh well.


	9. Draco Malfoy and the Nimbus 2001s

The Great Hall was buzzing with the excitement of another Friday morning. 

Draco hungrily finished his porridge in a matter of minutes and decided he would steal some of Blaise's sausage when he wasn't looking. Since Quidditch practice had started, he had been more sore and more hungry, but undeniably happier and more energetic. Having time in the air made his head feel so much clearer.

He couldn't wait until their first game. It was against Gryffindor, of course. He couldn't wait to show them whose team was the best, even if it meant possibly aggravating the Weasley twins.  

As he leaned over to steal the food off of Blaise's plate, Harry rolled his eyes and gave him a look. He snatched Draco's hand away and guided it to the serving platter just as Blaise looked back.

Draco sighed and settled for getting his own. It was just more fun to see what he could get away with.

"Mail should be coming soon," Harry said casually. "I'm expecting a letter from Pa and Da." He had been using different names for them lately, trying out new things. Draco had come to assume that, as a general rule, if he didn't recognize a name, it probably referred to one of Harry's dads.

Draco grinned and looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the owls.

"I hope Father has written me back," he said. "Maybe he'll send over my broom from home." Harry's parents had already sent him his, and it was his old Nimbus 2000. Draco had a similar model at home, and he was hoping to be able to use it against the Gryffindors.

Of course, he wouldn't be adverse to a newer model, but saying that to Harry would make him call him a spoiled prat again. He could wait until Christmas for a new broom, anyways...

He found his gaze shooting across the Great Hall, to where he saw Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, whispering something to one of his players. He was probably worried about the game.

He looked over to where Marcus Flint was busy dissecting the food on his plate like it was a detailed potions experiment. He looked ridiculously meticulous, though not particularly concerned with the game at the moment.

Of course he wasn't. They had nothing to worry about.

"Here it comes," said Harry, and owls began swooping into the room.

Draco immediately lightened when he saw a suspiciously broom-shaped package being carried in by three owls. It came towards the Slytherin table, and he smiled.

"My broom!" he exclaimed.

The package was set down in front of Marcus Flint, who looked terribly surprised.

"Oh." Draco sighed and stared down at his plate.

"I guess everyone's parents decided to send in their brooms today," Blaise chuckled, and Draco looked up in response.

Several more brooms were being carried in with the morning, and Draco nearly giggled when one of them was set down in front of him. It was definitely from Father--he recognized one of his owls (Varius, he remembered) and the very Malfoy-like fancy packaging. 

"See? He didn't forget."

Harry had a fond smile on his face, but Draco paid less attention to it than he normally would. Instead, he tore open the package, revealing a shining, new Nimbus 2001.

"Oh, yes!" he cried. "Let's see what the Gryffindors will do about this." He looked over at the Gryffindor table with a sneer. He saw that Wood was standing up with his arms crossed, glaring back over at the Slytherin table. At Marcus Flint, precisely, who had a particularly smug look on his face.

"Are you even going to read the note?" Theo asked drily, snapping Draco's attention back to his own side of the table.

"Of course," grumbled Draco, reaching over to take the parchment tied to the end. 

 

> _For your team. Do them well, Draco._
> 
> _\-- Father_

He felt Harry snort from over his shoulder. "He didn't sign it with Lucius instead?"

Blaise and Theo both snickered at that.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Draco grumbled.

And then Marcus Flint was sauntering over, a few of the other Quidditch players trailing after him (Graham Montague and Adrian Pucey). They were each carrying new brooms as well, and they had smirks on their faces.

"Way to go, Malfoy!" Montague laughed. "This is brilliant. You think you and your traitor father can win us over with gifts?" he demanded. He tapped on the broom handle. "Well, I quite like this, even if you're a twit. I'll be keeping it."

Draco felt his throat tighten. That wasn't at all what he was expecting. He noticed Harry tense next to him, and Blaise and Theo both looked concerned.

Then, Flint elbowed Montague. "Shut it, Graham," he growled. "Be grateful. Just look at the kid's face--I don't think he was expecting this any more than we were."

His cheeks flushed in gratitude, and Harry looked marginally less murderous.

"Thanks, Malfoy," Pucey added, and he spun the broom in a circle. "Looks like you've secured a pleasant spot for yourself on the team. I guess we can't treat you  _too_ badly." There was a twinkle in his eye, and Draco wasn't sure if he was joking or not.

"Oh, sure," Montague agreed, his crooked teeth curling into a wicked smile. "In fact, this ass-kissery is so pleasant, I think we might just allow you to stay late after practice to run laps."

"W-what?" Draco demanded. At this point, he had no idea if they were grateful or angry at him. Was running laps supposed to be good? He remembered he had seen Lockhart running before. So, he smiled at them. "Thanks, I guess."

Both Harry and Blaise groaned. Theo's lips were drawn in a tight line, and Flint wasn't really doing anything.

"Oh, come on," Pucey grumbled. "New players get that usually. And clearly, he doesn't have a problem with that. Look at his dopey smile. I say we make him polish all of our brooms for the rest of the year."

Harry stood up before Draco could even blink.

"Leave him alone," he snarled. "He's not dopey, and he's not your servant." His hand was resting at the hem of his robes, ready to draw his wand.

Flint rolled his eyes. "Oh, for Salazar's sake, you twats. These are nice brooms. We're supposed to be thanking Malfoy, not harassing him and his friends."

Montague scowled. "We didn't need charity from traitors."

"And we're not interested in dueling any second years," Pucey added, though he looked amused. "And go shove a sock in it, Montague. You're not being fun anymore." He turned to face the other boy and shoved him away.

Montague turned red and stomped away, and Flint watched him with a raised eyebrow.

"Shit person, but he's a good Chaser," he told them quietly. "And sit down, Potter. No fighting with the team. Feel free to have it on with those Gryffindors, though. I can practically hear their nasty comments already."

Harry immediately turned to face the Gryffindor table, but Draco didn't bother. He was still watching Flint with confusion. He felt as though if he had just been the victim of something, but he wasn't sure if Flint was on his side or not.

"Bloody guard dog," Pucey commented. He shrugged and looked at Draco. "Thanks for the broom, Malfoy. I'll keep an eye out for you." He paused a moment, and looked as though he were about to say more, but he turned and left as well.

That left Flint. He took a step towards the table, and sent a harsh glare at both Theo and Blaise. They immediately scooted away from each other, leaving him room to lean in over the table and talk. He looked over to each side, and everyone was looking away and giving them privacy.

"Completely between you and me... Pucey and I don't think you Malfoys are traitors," he whispered. "But if you breathe a word of that to anyone in or out of this House, I'll skin you alive. Things have been a little tense in our House since you and Potter got here." He shook his head bitterly and leaned forward on his elbows.

"We're supposed to stick together, though, us Slytherins, so we haven't let it get to us. Sure, people can say things to themselves... But the minute someone says or does something to either of you--to anyone--you come to me, got it? We've got enough animosity in this school. We don't need to tear each other apart, too." 

Draco stared at him with wide eyes and nodded. "I will," he breathed.

"Good." Flint propped himself back up and reached over the table to slap Draco on the shoulder. "See you at practice. You and Potter both are running laps after--got to get you in shape. Burn off that baby fat."

He was gone in a second, and Draco felt slightly flustered.

"I don't have baby fat," he grumbled.

Theo gaped at him. 

"After all that they just said to you,  _that's_ what you're not okay with?"

Blaise snorted. "He's probably used to the rest of it."

-

Later that day, they had about an hour before practice to study in the library. Snape had assigned two essays due the next Monday, and McGonagall had assigned a similar amount.

They both were surprised to find Hermione there. She was sitting with one of her Ravenclaw friends, and gave them a cautious look when she saw them approach.

Harry had never explicitly told her why he was angry or that he was upset with her, but she was smart. She most likely knew.

"Let's sit with her," Draco urged, beginning to walk towards the table.

"Fine," Harry grumbled reluctantly. He didn't exactly 

Hermione raised a hand in a half-hearted greeting. "Hi Draco. Harry." She was reading a textbook and looked rather tired. She avoided looking at Harry.

"Hello," Draco said, sitting down next to her and smiling. "Is this your friend?" he inquired, gesturing at the boy sitting next to her.

"Yeah," said the boy. "Terry Boot. And you're Malfoy."

Draco nodded and straightened himself. "Yes, I am."

"You don't have a problem with that?" Harry asked, tilting his head. He was far too used to defending Draco at this point, which was a bit strange, considering it was  _him_ who had dreadful articles being published about him. 

"Not at all, Potter," Boot said hastily. He sounded nervous. "I mean, I just--you know, I know who he is, and I--"

He yelped and Harry realized that Hermione must have kicked him. She shot him a glare.

"I haven't seen you two in a while," she said cooly, turning her attention back to Draco and Harry, flickering between them. "Too busy for me?"

Draco (sweet, tactless Draco) broke out into a grin. "We're on the Quidditch team!" he exclaimed.

Harry nodded, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say, either. In some ways, he was just as tactless as Draco. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to explain to her in straight terms why exactly he had been avoiding her.

He supposed he could try and be clever and do the Slytherin thing. Be coy about it. It wasn't exactly something that he had practice with yet, though. 

"Wonderful," Hermione remarked, though she sounded bored. "What positions?"

"I'm keeper," Draco said excitedly, seeming to have forgotten the tentative situation with Hermione in favor of chatting about recent events. "And Harry's Seeker, of course."

"Really?" Boot blurted, leaning forward. "You both made those positions? And you're only second years?"

Draco tilted his chin and seemed to preen a bit, looking very much like one of his fathers' proud, pale peacocks. "Impressive, isn't it?" His voice was a slow drawl.

Harry huffed in amusement and pulled out his books as Draco eagerly chattered about Quidditch. It wasn't very often that Harry was the one being studious, but he couldn't fathom doing much else with Hermione at the table. She was watching him intently as Boot politely listened to Draco's boasts.

Harry tried to focus on the essay he was writing, but he hated Potions, and it was the last thing he was going to be able to think about when he was already uncomfortable. He wasn't in the mood for Transfiguration, but he decided he might be able to get a little Defense homework done, considering he could get more work done when he was fueled with anger.

Tonight's homework was to draw a sketch of Professor Lockhart's face. Draco had finished his in advance, a few nights ago, though Harry had refused to look at it. He had been putting his off, and he really couldn't care less.

He decided he would make it as mocking of a drawing as possible, but without making it obvious enough to get him in trouble. He would put it off to his poor drawing abilities; he wasn't nearly as talented as Draco, after all.

As he drew Lockhart a rudely disproportionate nose, he thought that it was an annoying shame that Draco's skills would be wasted on drawing  _Lockhart._

He was deeply focused on drawing Lockhart's hair--his ridiculously golden, smooth locks--when Hermione snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention.

"What?" he grumbled, and for a moment, he forgot that he was angry with her.

"We need to talk," she whispered.

Harry looked up and saw that Draco and Terry Boot were gone. 

"They're looking for some book," Hermione said, apparently noting his distress.

"Well, what do you want to talk about?" He knew what she wanted to talk about, but that didn't mean  _he_ wanted to talk about it. Frankly, he would have preferred if Draco was there to help him. Harry was all about being open about his parents, but Moony's "condition" was not something he could discuss freely with anyone.

"Why you've been avoiding me."

"I haven't been avoiding you, Hermione. Draco and I have been busy with classes and Quidditch."

"We share three classes, Potter. You could have made some time to talk to me."

"Blaise is better at Herbology than you, and I don't want to hear you and Draco coo over Lockhart, and you never help me with Transfiguration." The excuses rolled more freely off of his tongue than he would have liked them to, and he realized in a moment that perhaps there was more than one reason he was avoiding Hermione. 

Hermione flinched. "So that's all I am to you?" she demanded. "A study partner?"

"No," Harry shot back quickly, glancing down at his drawing. His Lockhart had hair curling either out of his ears or very close to his ears. "It's just that I--"

"You've been upset, and you're acting like too much of a Slytherin to tell me why."

It was Harry's turn to wince. "No, I haven't." Why was it that the only times he was accused of being Slytherin, it was for the bad things?

"Mmmph." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Clearly, that's why you stormed out after our first Defense class. Was it something I said?"

Harry bit his lip. "Yes," he admitted, setting down his quill. "I was offended. Still am."

"Care to share?" Hermione asked, looking minutely relieved, but mostly irked.

"It's a long story."

"Well, I can't change if you don't explain it to me. It's hardly my fault."

Harry sighed. That was true, but things were hardly so simple. 

"Lockhart's not always right, you know," he said as a beginning.

It was the wrong idea. Hermione's jaw slackened and her eyes lit up with a frightening fire. "That's what this is about?" she demanded. "Lockhart? Are you really still jealous of our  _Professor,_ Harry?"

"That's not it!" Harry protested. "I mean, I don't like him, but that's not why I'm upset. I still tolerate Draco, after all."

"But you can't tolerate me?"

"Because Draco knows!"

"Knows what, Harry? Will you bother to tell me?"

Harry nearly chewed off his lip as he looked around the room anxiously, making sure no one was listening. After everything Moony had told him about the media and how their society saw werewolves, the last thing he wanted was people overhearing.

People would get the wrong ideas. A werewolf and a Black raise the Boy Who Lived, and of course he starts spewing Parseltongue. Wouldn't that make a lovely headline.

"Werewolves aren't monsters," Harry told her in a whisper. "And if you believe that just because Lockhart says it, I can't respect that."

"What's this to do with anything, Harry?" Hermione demanded. "They  _are_ monsters. I've read more than just Lockhart's books. They're listed as Dark creatures for a reason! They kill people, and they fought on You-Know-Who's side."

Harry didn't think he could bear to hear those words coming out of a friends' mouth, so he clenched his fist and envisioned drawing a big, fat wart on Lockhart's face. Or perhaps hexing one there. The thought gave him strength.

"They don't all want to be monsters," Harry told her. "A lot of them don't have a choice to live like that. And none of them wanted to be bitten in the first place!"

"I don't see why our different opinions on werewolf politics should make you hate me!"

"That's because you're a muggleborn, Hermione, and you don't understand." The words came out as a hiss from Harry's mouth. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, and he knew they would cut to the quick.

Hermione recoiled immediately. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to try even harder to  _understand,_ won't I? Just like everything else," she spat, gathering her books and standing up. "You know, I don't even know why I ever wanted to be friends with you. You're just as bad as the others, thinking you're so much better than me because you were raised by muggles." 

"Hermione, I didn't mean--"

"No, no. I'm glad you said it." She sniffed as she stood up, and she looked as though she were about to cry. "You know, I think everyone's got it wrong. They say that Draco is some kind of privileged monster, and you're some kind of gold-hearted savior. But Draco's the one with the heart, and you've just been bitter with me from the beginning." 

Harry didn't know what to say. He just watched her with wide eyes.

"Don't you and Draco have practice?" she asked as she walked away.

He didn't want to go to practice. He wanted to melt away into a hole. He felt as though his worst nightmare was unfolding before his eyes.

He was a monster. A snake. Even Hermione thought so. 

What would his fathers say?

-

Harry seemed out of sorts at practice that day. Instead of joining in with the exercises, he flew in large loops above them all.  He didn't catch the Snitch once. 

No one reprimanded him.

"Best not to bother the Prince," Draco overheard one of the other players snickering.

"Prince?" he couldn't help but ask.

One of the fourth year Beaters--Carter, a big, hulking fellow--turned to respond. "You know. Slytherin Prince. He speaks Parseltongue. Heir of Slytherin. That sort of thing."

Draco frowned. "Haven't heard of it before," he murmured.

Another Beater, Muller, glanced over at him. "Yeah, we're not supposed to say it 'round him. Bullying and what not. I think it's a compliment, personally." He struck at a Bludger with wicked force, sending it rocketing across the field.

"Why?"

"Heir of Slytherin? That's some Dark power. Very impressive. If people were assuming that of me, I'd be flattered," Muller mumbled. "It's the only reason he gets left alone so much. If they didn't worry he had so much Dark power, some of the Death Eater kids would have made his life hell by now."

"What about bullying?" Draco's mouth suddenly felt very dry.

"Don't care what the prefects say," Muller continued. "Potter killed the Dark Lord. A lot of people--not saying I do--think that makes him not one of us. But because he killed You-Know-Who, it's a good idea to be careful."

Draco felt queasy for some reason. It wasn't very assuring to know that everyone thought his best friend was Dark. That everyone was afraid of him.

"Harry's not that bad..."

"Don't tell that to someone like Montague. Or the Carrows," Carter advised him. 

Draco was going to answer, but he heard Flint's booming call.

"Oi! You three! If you want to chat, you can do it when you're not on the team! Get back to your drills!"

Draco looked hesitantly up at the sky, where Harry had begun to do a series of dives.

After practice, when they had to run laps, he didn't say anything about his conversation with the Beaters. Harry already looked worried enough, and Draco didn't want to make him concerned over coming off as the Heir of Slytherin--whatever that meant.

He put it on his list of  _Things To Ask Professor Snape._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how fond I am of that line that breaks texts between "scenes?" Well, suddenly, that is no longer an available feature, not even when I use HTML. Is this just me? And what is this injustice?


	10. Harry Potter and the No Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just found the deleted scenes for the Prisoner of Azkaban on Youtube and I am strangely inspired. :D

Draco was woken Monday morning by squelching sounds out his window.

A smile broke out on his face immediately, even though he wasn't in a mood to get up early (he was still sore from extra practice on Saturday and Sunday), because the Squid outside his window meant something big was going to happen that day. He wasn't sure when or why he had begun to believe his own superstitious stories, but he had.

_ Squelch, squelch, squelch. _

Draco got up to look. The tentacles slithered and kneaded along the porthole windows, orange and prophetic. He grinned again, because this was the one part of sleeping in the dorms that he adored--besides the living with Harry part. However, he decided not to wake Harry, who'd had bags under his eyes the previous day and could definitely use some sleep.

Hoping that whatever happened today would be good news for Harry (his future self would, once again, wish he'd  _ knocked on wood),  _ he left their dorm to wash his face before heading down to the Great Hall. As usual, he was one of the first people in Slytherin to be up. It wouldn't last long, though. Half of the House would be awake in ten minutes or so.

The dungeons were cold, and Draco tried to remind himself that they would be colder come November (and  _ oh,  _ it was already October fourth), but he couldn't quite remember entirely, so he wouldn't be bothered by it. He hummed a greeting at the still-dozing portraits on the way to the Great Hall and absently wondered if he would see Hermione there.

He had been talking on and off with her, but she seemed curt and much more interested in her newish Ravenclaw friends. She hadn't talked to Harry at all, which might have contributed to both of their foul moods. They were never chipper around each other anyway (always banter and competition), but this was obviously an all time low.

Hermione was already at the Ravenclaw table, idly sipping tea and reading a book he hadn't seen before. A quick glance over at the Slytherin table told him that none of his friends were there (unless he wanted to sit with Gemma Farley, but that was a no, especially because Parkinson was sitting right there next to her). He decided to chance it and sit with Hermione.

“Morning.”

She looked up with a raised eyebrow and closed her book. “Good morning,” she replied. “Don’t feel like being a Slytherin today?”

“I’m always a Slytherin,” he replied indignantly. “It just happens that I don’t to want to sit with them today.”

She just snorted in some kind of agreement. “Yes, some can be quite terrible.” She went back to reading her book.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, a little off put. Hermione could be passive-aggressive, and a bit rude when she wanted, but that was uncalled for.

Without looking up, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. It just seems that some happen to be rude. And selfish. And, let’s face it, Dark. Weren’t most of You-Know-Who’s followers Slytherin?”

Draco cringed. “I’m none of those things!” he exclaimed, feeling hurt by her sudden insensitivity. Maybe this was why Harry was avoiding her.

“Oh, I know you aren’t,” she answered quickly, and her face pulled into a frown as she set down the book once again. “But some are all of those things and more. I mean, think of someone like Montague. I saw how he treated you last week.”

Draco frowned as well, unsure of what she was implying. “There are some nasty Ravenclaws, too,” he countered.

“Statistically less so,” she said, and he could sense the beginnings of an argument. “But honestly, Draco… I don’t see why you spend time with most of them.”

That got his attention.

“Like who?” he demanded. “And I don’t think you’re right. Maybe there were more of us who went bad recently, but I bet the other Houses have been on the wrong side of history before, too!” He had forgotten he was supposed to be eating breakfast, to be chatting merrily with a friend. He felt as though he had something to defend.

“Relax!” Hermione grumbled. “I’m not trying to offend you.”

“Than  _ who  _ are you trying to offend?” he bristled, hoping it would get the proper confession out of her.

She pursed her lips, looking deep in thought, and Draco knew it was only a few more moments until she would say it, because she had never been one to keep things inside for long.

Hermione took in one long breath, and then exhaled a gushing wave of unwanted words.

“I’m worried about you, Draco,” she confessed. “Harry is  _ horrible.  _ I don’t want him hurting you. He’s been terrible with me, and he’s moody and angry, and people are saying that he’s the Heir of Slytherin--”

“Why does everything have to be about Slytherin?” he demanded, interrupting.

“It’s not!” she cried, and knocked down her (empty) cup of tea. “It’s about being Dark! And Harry being a terrible friend!”

“He’s not a terrible friend,” Draco insisted, taking a deep breath. “And he’s not Dark. You know that just as well as anyone.”

“Draco, I’ve done the research, I’ve  _ talked  _ to people. Parselmouths are Dark, Draco. And people will hurt you and him when it becomes more evident.”

_ (Knock on wood) _

“Did you even listen to Moony and Padfoot? Even  _ they _ know it’s not bad!”

“Read a book, Draco! It’s dangerous, people are scared, and you and Harry’s parents are just biased!”

Draco was about to say something, but he was stopped when he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. As he was apt to do, Harry had snuck up behind them.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, and she picked up her book and held it in front of her face. Draco realized he had somehow begun standing up just as he realized the discussion was over, and he left the table to rejoin Harry.

He looked harrowed.

“What happened?” he asked, and it was clear that it was not how he wanted to begin his morning.

“I don’t know,” Draco replied, feeling rather dazed. And betrayed. “I think Hermione is afraid of you. What happened with you two?”

“I got mad at her because of Lo--because of how she talks about werewolves. She accused me of being Dark,” Harry explained, sitting down at the Slytherin table.

Draco cast a nervous glance down the table, where Parkinson was watching them with a devilish look.

“How are we going to fix this?” he moaned.

“Let’s just eat breakfast and get through classes,” Harry suggested, sounding almost pleading.

Draco wasn’t about to argue with that logic. But he did hope that the Squid luck would come up with something to remedy the poor start to the morning.

-

The first class of the day was potions, and Snape was in an exceptionally foul mood. Apparently, most of the class had failed the last quiz, and none of their essays had been “satisfactory.” Even Draco’s essay had been completely marked up in red ink.

And, because Snape was in such a bad mood, no one wanted to partner with Harry. It would mean, after all, being targeted by Snape’s anger, and receiving a particularly low potion grade.

Not even Blaise would partner with him, and he was Harry’s go-to.

“What about you, Draco?” Harry pleaded, hovering by his table. Half of the class had already begun.

“No,” Draco whispered, chopping at some purple, smelly root. “Potions happens to be the one subject I’m good at, Harry. And Snape actually likes me sometimes.”

“That’s why we should be partners again,” Harry replied. “We’d cancel each other out.”

“Because that worked  _ so  _ well last year.”

Harry was about to argue, but he felt a looming presence behind him.

“Social calls can occur  _ after class,  _ Mr. Potter,” he growled. “Longbottom does not have a partner. Go and join him.”

Harry did not groan in protest. After all, Neville was his friend. And Neville wouldn’t complain about being partnered with him.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said quietly as they stood at the table. “I’ve got the ingredients here. You can chop them, and I’ll be the stirrer.”

Harry sighed in relief. Neville had always been wonderfully easy to work with.

In theory.

About halfway through, however, things started going wrong. Harry wasn’t sure if it was his fault because he added too much flobberworm mucus or when Neville turned the heat on too high for too long, but the cauldron melted.

_ “How  _ did you two manage this?” Snape growled, stalking over to their mess. “Fifteen points from Gryffindor.”

Behind him, Harry heard a gasp.

“That’s not fair!” shouted Ron Weasley. “What about Potter? It was his fault!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed and focused in on Ron. “Don’t lose your focus, Weasley. Your cauldron is beginning to  _ smoke.” _

And then Ron’s partner, Seamus Finnigan, jumped in surprise and accidentally dropped in a handful of crushed wormwood.

Their cauldron exploded in green smoke.

Harry bit his lip to prevent himself from laughing, but he could hear Blaise and Draco both erupt into laughter. The rest of Slytherin jumped in as well.

Ron’s face turned bright red, and he focused on Harry.

“You did that on purpose, you bloody snake!” he exclaimed.

“What did I do?” Harry demanded incredulously.

“You melted Neville’s cauldron, and then you made Seamus make ours explode!”

“How could I possibly have managed that?”

“I don’t know!” cried Ron, whose freckles were beginning to turn violently green from exposure to the smoke. “I don’t know what you’re capable of! You’re a bloody Dark—“

“That is  _ enough,  _ Mr. Weasley,” Snape growled, lifting his wand to clear the air of the smoke as the classroom went dead silent. “Thirty more points from Gryffindor. Consider yourself fortunate that I spared you detention.”

“What about Potter?” Ron protested, pointing a trembling finger at Harry. “He should get detention!”

“Silence, Mr. Wesley. I will speak with Mr. Potter, don’t you worry. Now, instead of advising me on my duties, I suggest you get to cleaning up your mess.”

As Ron began to grouse under his breath, Harry noticed that Neville had practically frozen in shock.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“It’s not your fault, Nev,” Harry assured him. “Let’s get to cleaning up, yeah? I’m sorry that you lost points.”

Neville just sighed. “I’m used to it.”

Class ended, and Harry left feeling even worse than before. He didn’t even want to think about Defense being next, because that would mean seeing Hermione  _ and  _ having to deal with Lockhart.

Draco fell into stride with him as they walked to the classroom.

“Where’s Blaise?” Harry asked absently.

“Helping Neville,” Draco answered. “Or fighting Weasley. Couldn’t quite tell.”

Harry groaned. “Why do they have to make things worse?”

“They’re not,” Draco answered immediately. “It’s not about you. It’s about Weasley being a git. And Nevile needing help.”

“I should have stayed.”

“ _ That  _ would have made things worse, Harry.”

Harry didn’t focus very much during Defense class. They got their drawings back (a little late), and he just barely noticed that Draco’s had been a stunning rendition of Lockhart (though some features were graciously exaggerated).

He couldn’t help but notice how much thought it seemed Draco had put into the hair.

His own drawing had gotten a very poor grade, and Lockhart had written a note on the back.

_ Feel free to keep this one, Harry. I don’t think I like it all that much. _

Harry snickered as he flipped it over to appreciate the extra wrinkles he had drawn on Lockhart’s forehead.

Then, Lockhart collected the portraits (that he liked), and stood in front of the class, raving about each of them.

“And this one is by Miss Granger,” he said, showing them a rather poorly done drawing of Lockhart facing off a werewolf. “It’s not the most realistic, but there is an entire essay on the back describing the scene which it portrays. I don’t think I could have done it better myself!”

Harry was torn between snickering and groaning, but ended up burying his head in his arms on the desk.

The rest of the class was spent going over each of the portraits while Lockhart came up with some absurd anecdote from his life that each one could relate do.

By the end of it, Harry was just about ready to jump off a bridge.

But lunch was immediately after that class, and he felt immediately relieved. He wasn’t in the mood to go to the Great Hall (staying alone in the Owlrey until Herbology sounded rather idea), but Draco had dragged him along.

He was chattering pleasantly, clearly in a good mood, and Harry allowed himself to tune out a bit and bask in his friends’ happiness. It was easier if he wasn’t listening to what Draco actually said.

“Today really hasn’t been that bad,” he hummed, taking Harry by the arm as they entered the Great Hall. “I mean, Hermione was pretty awful, but wasn’t it exciting to see the cauldron blow up in Weasley’s face? Oh, look—there he is! His freckles are still green.”

Harry glanced over and saw a very sour-looking Ron Weasley being taunted by Fred and George.

“And Neville’s alright, see? He’s sitting with his friends. Oh, no, nevermind. They just left him. Is he sitting with first years?”

Harry was barely listening to Draco as he glanced over at the Slytherin table. Dismayed, he noticed that the only empty seats were next to Montage and Parkinson, on opposite sides of the table.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. It wasn’t as though their day could get any  _ worse. _

“What?” Draco asked, turning to look. “Oh. And I suppose we can’t sit with Hermione, even though she has plenty of space.”

“Not happening.” Harry bit back a scowl as he considered sitting with the Hufflepuffs. He didn’t know any of them, though.

“Well, I’m hungry, so we need to find somewhere,” Draco declared. “Maybe someone will get up…”

“No.” Harry sighed and looked at the Gryffindor table, adorned ridiculously in maroon and gold streamers. Neville was mostly alone, and there was plenty of space next to him. “Let’s sit with Neville.” It wasn’t as though he hadn’t spent some time with the lot of them last year.

Oh, wouldn’t Padfoot be pleased.

“Fine,” Draco groaned. “It’ll be better than sitting with the Hufflepuffs.”

Neville looked more than a little surprised to see them walk up.

“Hullo.” He stared at them, looking a little dumbfounded.

“Hi, Nev,” said Harry. “Can we sit here?”

“Sure,” Neville replied, scratching his head. “I don’t think it breaks any rules. I mean, Ron might kill me, but—“

“Forget Weasley,” Draco grumbled, plopping into a seat. “I’m hungry, and I need food before this color scheme ruins my appetite.”

Harry chuckled at that, and sat down next to him. Draco ate heartily (“Why does your food taste different? That’s hardly fair!”), while Neville tried to make conversation (“Blaise and Theo sat with me once, too.”), and Harry tried not to pay too much mind to everyone staring at them. Draco noticed, apparently, but he seemed to preen under the attention more than anything.

Then, Fred and George showed up, surrounding Draco and Harry on either side.

“Oi, this is our table,” said Fred teasingly, elbowing Harry.

“Another one of your stunts, surely,” George added, looking around Draco.

“T-they were just sitting with me,” Neville stuttered in way of explanation.

“You sure about that?” inquired George. “I mean, if you’ll listen to our little brother, he’s the Darkest wizard around!”

“He might be poisoning our food,” Fred added with a wink.

Neville’s eyes widened. “He wouldn’t! I swear!”

Fred and George laughed. “We’re only teasing,” they both said.

“Why does your brother hate us so much?” Draco asked them, scrunching a little closer to Harry.

“Little brother complex,” George answered quickly.

“He’s just an idiot. We told you before,” Fred added.

Harry sighed and set down his fork, deciding he wasn’t in the mood to eat any more. Or hear more about Ron Weasley.

“I couldn’t care less,” he growled, “as long as he keeps his mouth shut. And leaves Neville alone.” He looked meaningfully at Neville, who had to live with the prat.

“He’s not so bad,” Neville promised, though the tips of his ears had gone red.

“We’ll protect him for you,” said Fred with a wink. “But really, we must get going.”

“See you on the Pitch, Harry,” George said, and then he and Fred left.

Harry just about rolled his eyes, but then someone was tapping on his shoulder.

“Excuse me, you’re Harry Potter,” a high-pitched voice said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Er, yes?” Harry answered, turning around to face the voice. It was a short, Gryffindor first year. He had an abundance of light curls, and a camera was slung around his neck.

“I’m Colin Creevey,” he said in a rush. “Muggleborn, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard all about you! You defeated You-Know-Who when you were a baby!”

“Yeah, sure. Made him disappear, actually,” Harry corrected. He couldn’t consider the Dark Lord vanquished when he had just run into him that spring.

“Anyway, I know people keep saying you’re Dark, but I know you’re  _ not.  _ I read about you and your dads in  _ Witch Weekly _ , you know. An old copy, but I wanted to learn about the culture.” Colin was speaking so fast, it made Harry’s head ring.

“Thanks?”

“And you were the first wizard I ever really heard about. I mean, I could always do magic, but everyone thought I was  _ crazy,  _ but you’re not crazy, are you?”

“Debatable,” Draco murmured, and it earned him an elbow to the ribs.

“Potter! What are you doing?”

Harry groaned as he saw Ron Weasley started walking over. Now that his brothers weren’t there, of course he chose to arrive.

“Eating lunch,” Harry replied.

“At our table?” Ron demanded. “What do you think you’re doing to this first year? Trying to corrupt him?”

“The  _ first year  _ is the one doing the talking,” Draco cut in.

“Why’re you mad at Harry?” Colin demanded. “I just wanted a picture with him. I got a wizarding camera for it, too! The pictures will move, and Harry can sign it, and then I can prove that I met him!”

“Autographs, Potter? Really?” Ron laughed bitterly. “Think you’re so famous and special, don’t you? Well,  _ stop it _ . You need to leave our table. You’re a bad person.”

“What would you know?” Neville interrupted before Harry could say anything. “You don’t know Harry! You’re just---just jealous!”

“No I’m not!” Ron protested. “I just don’t want anyone getting hurt! Why are you defending him, Neville?”

“No one’s getting hurt,” Harry insisted.

“Yes, they are! You made my cauldron explode!”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Harry cried.

“Green freckles are injuries now, are they?” Draco sneered.

“Shut up!” Ron screeched.

And they all did, but it wasn’t because of Ron. It was because Professor McGonagall had showed up, angry and surrounded by crackling magic.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

“It’s Potter!” Ron insisted, pointing a finger at Harry belligerently.

“No, it’s Weasley,” Draco insisted calmly. “He’s accusing Harry of being evil. Again.”

“It’s t-true,” Neville affirmed. “Came over and started shouting.”

“Mr. Potter?” McGonagall queried. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I just wanted to get his picture,” Colin murmured.

McGonagall ignored him, her eyes trained on Harry.

“I shouldn’t have sat here, Professor,” he growled darkly. “Clearly, I’m not welcome. May I be excused?”

McGonagall blinked in surprise. “Yes, Mr. Potter,” she said at last. “But if I catch you sitting here again, it will be detention for you and your friends.”

“That’s not fair!” Draco cried.

“Come on, Draco,” Harry muttered. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

He was surprised that McGonagall had let them off so easy, but that didn’t mean that it felt any easier. He felt Ron’s eyes digging into his back as he left, and half of the Great Hall was watching. There were whispers, too, and he didn’t have to think too hard to know what they were saying.

He felt very, very angry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a cliffhanger, sorry. Also, shout out to my new beta, Dinkydog!


	11. Harry Potter and His Returning Scar Pains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that they've hardly been back at Hogwarts for over a month at this point. Halloween is just around the corner.

Harry's foul mood had carried over through the rest of the day, even if nothing else significantly terrible had happened after that. Draco kept on asking him if he was alright, but he mostly ignored that. Even Quidditch had gone over smoothly, besides the strenuous workout.

The Snitch was being extra quick that day, and chasing after it helped him work out some of his pent-up anger. By the end of it, he was tired, and a little light-headed. In fact, he practically stumbled off of his broom.

Flint noticed. "Potter!" he barked. "Watch yourself. Head to the Hospital Wing, or  _something._ We've got our first game against Ravenclaw next week, do you hear? I don't want you overworking yourself."

Harry steadied himself and met his eyes. "What about Draco?" He looked to the sky and saw the other boy was still doing drills in front of the goals, his face flushed red with exertion.

"He's having fun. Bloody ball of energy, that one. Let him work it off," Flint said. "You, on the other hand. I think we've all heard about _your_ long day."

"Oh, have you?" Harry grumbled, not entirely pleased to think about the news of his horrendous day getting around. He doubted it was Draco or Neville or any of his other friends who told. There were enough unfriendly people around to watch that it was probably one of them.

If he had to put his money on anyone, it would be Parkinson.

"Obviously," Flint replied. "Now, run off and get some rest and maybe a calming draught. You've got a tired look in your eye. Not good, that look."

Taken slightly aback, Harry averted his gaze. People usually didn't comment on things like that. He had always thought he was a bit unreadable.

"Can you tell?" he asked uneasily.

"Just about everyone can, Potter," Flint said, looking a bit confused now. "You're a bit grave most of the time, you know that?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, his voice a breath. He wasn't sure why he felt so thrown off. "I'll see you later, Flint."

He felt eyes on his back as he stalked back up to the castle. The further he went, the heavier his limbs felt as tiredness seeped into his mind. He entered the castle in haze of exhaustion and a fuzzy sense of the dull throb of red anger. His body moved on automatic, and it felt a bit like one of those nights exploring the castle.

Not following his scar, no. But something was pulling him along.

He found himself at the end of a long corridor, all high and cold stone walls. A single green tapestry with gold trimming hung at the end of the wall. He had never seen it before. He found himself staring up at it, unable to focus on anything else.

His head--his _scar,_ oh, gods, since when was that a problem again?--began to throb, and he sunk to the floor, whimpers of protest escaping his mouth. Staring up at the tapestry, his mind fashioned patterns in its fabric that weren't really there. He wasn't sure how long he had been there, feeling his scar throb, until he started hearing voices.

_Opening...long time...waking...blood...._

_Blood...time...darkness...._

His head began to throb even more, his vision swam, and the voices began pulsing in his mind until he was worried it was  _him_ thinking those words. He was unsure if he was awake or dreaming, unable to discern mind from matter.

Someone was calling his name. 

_Potter. Harry Potter._

It was an foreboding, dripping with tragic memory and anger and rage and hurt. He wasn't sure what had drawn him there or why there was someone calling out to him, but the thought spinning like gale winds in his mind made him believe that he didn't deserve to be rescued from himself in that moment. 

And then, after some amount of time he couldn't quite discern, there were hands on his shoulders. Cold, medical hands shaking him back into reality. 

He felt his eyes snap open, and he nearly jumped when he saw Snape's face just in front of his. Cold

" _Potter,"_ he said. "Harry. Can you hear me now? Are you awake? Your eyes are open."

"Here," Harry rasped, trying to move away but finding himself unable. His throat was dry and sore and his head ached but no longer throbbed. He felt very, very cold.

Snape helped him stand up, and Harry found himself surprised and confused by the normally hostile professor's gentle assistance.

"How'd you find me?" he asked when he stood up.

"The Baron found you and alerted me of your  _situation,"_ Snape replied, most of the frantic sympathy gone from his expression by now. 

"And you came to help me?" The words escaped unbidden. 

"Need I remind you it's my  _duty_ to assist students of my house?" the professor returned sourly. His cold hand moved to Harry's face to hold open each eye as he inspected his pupils. "Did you hit your head? When was the last time you drank any water?"

"I don't know, sir," Harry confessed. He was starting to lose his grasp on the events of the day. His mind was drenched with blurred emotion that shut out most everything else.

"Madam Pomfrey's then, immediately. You require medical attention. You certainly _seem_ off." Harry didn't have to be in his best state to hear the unspoken  _You're not being your usual arrogant, spoiled self_ come out of Snape's tone.

"Thank you." It seemed necessary.

"As I said, I am obligated. Can you walk?"  

"I think so." He steadied himself and tried his feet. He apparently didn't have any trouble  _getting_ here, so he hoped he could leave. They began to walk slowly, and Harry was hoping for some silence so he could collect his thoughts. He assumed he was lucky that it was Snape (because when did he ever want to converse with Harry?), but his luck was not so.

"Describe your symptoms," he ordered.

"What?" Harry asked, taking a moment to process the words.

"Confusion, then," Snape grumbled. "You're addled."

Harry couldn't even conjure a comeback. "And my head--no, my scar hurts. My throat, too. I think I was hearing things."

Snape seemed to consider that a moment as they began to go down a flight of stairs Harry didn't remember going up. He clung to the railing as the potions master watched him closely.

"Why were you there?" Snape asked, sounding suspicious.

"I don't know," Harry answered. Not a good sign that it was his answer twice in a row, he thought. 

That troubled the professor, it seemed. "Do you know what that spot was?"

"No idea, sir. Never been to it before."

"I see." Snape paused for a long moment and stood still at the bottom of the stairs. "Once you told me that your scar provided spiritual insight, did you not?"

"Not exactly honestly, and not exactly that," Harry grumbled in response. He wasn't about to tell Snape that he realized it only hurt when Voldemort was nearby. 

"Reconsider that possibility," Snape said slowly. "It would appear that pain in your scar indicates some sort of disruption for you, perhaps on the account of spirits."

Harry's hand immediately flew to his scar. It felt swollen and painful to the touch. He hoped for a moment that those stupid stories he had told last year were really true, that it was only ghosts making his scar ache.

That was ridiculous, though. It was because of Voldemort; that was the only thing that made sense. Except that it didn't, because Voldemort (and Quirrel) had disappeared, been defeated, not only when Harry was a baby, but just a few months ago.

But, if he had come back once, he could come again, couldn't he? And if Harry's scar was connected to Voldemort's presence--

He fought the shudder that tickled and iced along his spine. It wasn't a possibility he wanted to consider. 

"What's the tapestry, sir?" he asked, hoping ( _hoping, desperately hoping)_ that it had nothing to do with Voldemort. 

"If there is one thing we do not discuss, Mr. Potter, it is the circumstances of the Bloody Baron's death," Snape answered, and that was enough for Harry to understand the tapestry's significance. "You are lucky he took enough sympathy on you to fetch me when he found you there."

"I'll have to thank him, too." Because if it was just the Bloody Baron, then all was well. The Baron had been around when his scar was hurting, hadn't he? That must have been it.

 _That's certainly it. That's all._ Even if it was a lie, it wouldn't do to break down in terror in front of Snape. 

"You have a surprising regard for courtesy," the professor said, a bit our of the blue. It made Harry jump. 

He hardly was surprised at the remark itself, though, until he realized that Snape was acknowledging a positive trait about him, as downplayed as it might have been.

"Er, thank my parents," he said.

"Or just one of them," Snape said thoughtfully. "Your mother was like that."

"Oh," said Harry, a little thrown off. "I meant Moon--I mean, I meant Remus and Sirius. They're my parents. To me, at least."

"Don't tell that to the Headmaster." 

Harry knew that. There was silence again.

"You knew Lily?" Harry asked tentatively.

"Of course I knew Lily," Snape snapped. "Did your  _parents_ never tell you?"

"Tell me what?" 

Snape's face remained unreadable, but there was a dismayed air beneath the usual irritation.

"You are the only thing left that remains of Lily Evans," he said slowly, cautiously,  _angrily,_ "and it would appear that you know nothing about her. Your guardians are more foolish than I thought."

Harry cringed. "They didn't know her too well," he reminded him, feeling a need to defend his fathers. "But Moony did tell me about her some."

Snape was not at all thrown by the nicknames, but Harry's words still seemed to be chipping away at him and his mask. Harry was afraid of what might happen if this shell the professor was wearing seemed to burst all at once.

"I understand that  _perhaps_ it was more beneficial to leave you to the hands of wizards who knew your father versus those foul muggles"--it sounded as if he  _knew_ those muggles, the Dursley's--"but it still manages to  _perplex_ me how _poorly_  they raised you. Your childhood must have been a _shrine_ to James Potter." He spat the words out bit by bit, seeming as though they were releasing a formerly well-kept flood from its crumbling gates.

Harry was afraid to intervene. He said nothing.

"They followed him like dogs. Idiotic, drooling dogs. Your father wasn't as brilliant as I'm sure they portrayed him, let me assure you. He was a pompous, spoiled, obnoxious, and  _wretched--"_

"I don't care," Harry interrupted, his head beginning to swim. "I don't  _care._ I don't know James. I don't know Lily. I've heard stories, I've been to their grave, but my dads don't  _talk_ about them, alright? I don't know anything. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not James, so it makes no sense for you to hate me for it."

"I do not  _hate_ you, Potter," Snape spat out, seeming now a little drained.

"Why? Because you hope I'm actually Lily?"

Snape let out a shuddering breath. "No. They are both gone. You were, however, still raised by men that hold me in disdain--whom  _I_ hold in disdain."

"They don't talk about you."

"How shocking," Snape scoffed. "I was certain they would have crowed about what a lying, treacherous snake I am."

"No." They never had. Perhaps once or twice there was a story about tormenting "Snivellus," and he of course he knew that they hated him to some degree, but they never discussed it.

Most likely, he had been too young to hear about it before. And now, he was a Slytherin. And he had a feeling most of that hatred was pooled towards Snape's more Slytherin qualities.

"Then perhaps you should ask them," he snarled. They had arrived at the Hospital Wing.

They didn't go in immediately.

"Or you could tell me sometime," Harry replied. "I know you answer Draco's questions sometime. Maybe you could tell me about my mother."

Snape regarded him for a moment. "Draco's mother values my counsel. Last I remember, your mother did not."

Harry didn't say anything. He was hit by a wave of exhaustion, and decided it was time to see Madam Pomfrey. As he was stumbling away, Snape didn't follow, but Harry was sure he heard him muttering to himself.

"Why have we left these boys in the dark like this?"

There was a nuance in his tone that told Harry that something had changed with Snape. Maybe there was a little less animosity there.

There was, however, still fear settling in his gut. He tried his best to push it aside without thinking too much about what the pain in his scar meant.

* * *

"Are you okay? You just disappeared. Snape said you were here."

Draco had come to visit him after dinner. He had rushed in with a wind of anxiety and concern, asking where he was and how he was and what had happened. It was nice, Harry thought, to be the full center of Draco's attention again. 

"M'fine," Harry answered, a bit groggy from the Calming Draught. "My head hurt."

"Oh." Draco sat down on the edge of the bed that Harry was resting in. "What a fantastic way to top off a terrible day."

"Yeah," Harry said uneasily. His memories of the day were still a little foggy. He mostly remembered a lot of irritation and anger.

"Will you be ready for school tomorrow? We've got that activity in Transfiguration, remember? I'll be your partner." Draco sounded strangely urgent, pleading almost.

"I think I'll be alright."

"And I'll be your Potions partner again. I'm sorry for not wanting to be your partner."

"Draco?" asked Harry. "Are you alright?" 

"I just don't want you to have a terrible day like this again," Draco said in a rush. "If it makes your scar hurt and you have to come to the hospital wing--"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, using the moment to grab his friend's hand. "Madam Pomfrey says I need to drink more water. And stress less."

"Do you need Pomfrey to get you water?" Draco asked, looking as though he himself were about to get up. "How can you stress less? Do you need help with homework? Maybe you need a tutor."

Harry noted that Draco wasn't offering to do any of these things himself. A little typical of him, he supposed.

"I'm  _fine,"_ he repeated. "Just really, really tired. Okay?"

"Okay," Draco said tentatively. "Do you want me to talk to Hermione? Maybe we can convince her to be our friend again. Would that make you feel better?"

Harry sighed, not wanting to think about that at all. "No," he replied. "She'll figure it out eventually."

"Okay," Draco replied. "You want me to go, don't you? You like being alone."

After five years of friendship, it seemed that Draco had  _finally_ figured out that about Harry. But Harry knew Draco well, too.

"You're not going to leave even if I said yes."

"I might, if it makes you feel better."

"It won't." He might have been an introvert at heart, but he could tolerate Draco. Especially when he was paying such close attention to him,  _doting_ on him. It was pleasant. 

"Alright, then." He paused for a moment, deep in thought. "You don't want me to apologize for making you go to lunch, do you?"

"What?" Harry barely remembered lunch. They had met someone, hadn't they? And something to do with Ron. "No. I'm sure it wasn't your fault." 

"Are you sure you're okay?" Draco asked. His eyes narrowed as he watched him carefully.

"I'm  _fine,_ Draco. You sound worse than Padfoot right now." (He didn't want either Draco  _or_ Padfoot finding out about the scar. That would be a thousand times worse.)

Draco just chuckled. "I'll try not to be like that, then. Have you gotten any letters from them?" 

"I think they've gone off to Paris for a week or two, actually."

Draco just smiled at him. "So, you'll be alright, then? Should we get Blaise or someone to bring you your homework?" 

"You could do it, you know," Harry teased him, feeling both the potion and the banter soothing him into a more relaxed state.

"I thought I was staying here?" he countered. 

Harry didn't really have a response for that, and that might have been because the potions were finally fully catching up with his brain. He felt his head go a little fuzzy, and he just smiled.

"If you like."

For a moment, he thought that Draco could stay there the whole night to comfort him, the way they'd had sleepovers when they were younger. Or the times in the past year where they stayed together when something went wrong.

Then, Draco let go of the hand that Harry forgot he was holding. And, now, he realized that it wouldn't happen. Something had changed, and it wasn't just because they were at the Hospital Wing at school. They were a little older now, and because of that, there would no longer be sleepovers like that or innocent hand holding.

For the first time in a while, Harry thought of the Mirror of Erised, and he realized that maybe that had to happen for him to have whatever in the mirror.

He missed it already, that innocent closeness, but he promised himself he would have it again, and it would be different.

His head had stopped buzzing angrily. He didn't even notice drifting off into sleep. 


	12. Draco Malfoy and Another Terrible Day For Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very emotionally draining chapter. Many things happen. I have an extended summary on my live journal written at 2am, but it's terrible and grammatically lacking. If you read it you might think I'm 12. :/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note in which I make a rambling case for the Malfoys in this AU even though its probs completely uncalled for, but it's more for me than anything.  
> Let's chat about Draco. Sometimes I'm writing him, and I'm like, "holy shit, this is not Malfoy. What am I doing? This is a crime!"  
> And if you're thinking the same thing, give me a minute to make my case straight up. I mean, this changed Draco is essentially the basis of this entire AU here (and wouldn't that make the canon Malfoy happy, to think the entire thing revolves around him).  
> Draco, in this story, grew up mostly around his parents, who are not evil in this AU. They've raised him completely differently, trying to make him a better person than they are. And yeah, that's because of Dumbledick's contract, sure. But he was just the initial "yo, do the right thing, or I will literally set you on fire, k?" and Narcissa and Lucius take it from there to prevent the things they do wrong. Being death eaters really fucked them up, and in this AU, they're trying to not fuck up because they've completely detached themselves from that group. Yeah, Narcissa is a homophobe, and Lucius is pretty much a racist, but they're focusing on redeeming themselves and doing the right thing. Because that's what's best for Draco.  
> So, the parents are nice, and Draco doesn't have as many daddy issues, and he's not as much of a spoiled and rude and hateful prick, because I've basically been a total softie and pulled away most of the parts of the childhood that would have turned him into a bully. Except he's grown up without really having friends now, and his parents have warned him his entire life about doing the wrong thing, about being an outcast.  
> Because of this Draco is timid, and has basically zero social skills. Harry was his only friend for a long time, so of course he's attached and possesive and protective and a little needy at times. He doesn't have a posse, and he's not really fit with the same leadership skills/desires as Lucius. If he does something rude or inconsiderate, it's not because he's trying to be contemptuous, it's literally because he has no idea what he's doing.  
> So, yeah, I've made Draco a socially awkward 12 year old. Literally. You're welcome. I hope you enjoy as he grows up and grows a backbone to defend himself and learns that he doesn't need to latch onto the nearest hero with pretty hair.  
> This has been my relentless analysis of a character I honestly love and if I sound harsh, I'm sorry. I have much hope that Draco will turn out amazing. Also, thank you for tolerating my extremely immature casual lingo here. This is how I talk in real life, and I am very sorry.  
> Analyses on Lucius and Narcissa may or may not come in later chapters.

Draco kept a close eye on Harry after that mess of a day. He had already been trying to be conscious of his friend, but now it was priority. Things seemed to have gone wrong left and right for Harry, so Draco felt as though he needed to do everything he could to make things go right.

He stopped talking about Lockhart as much (even less than he had been already, which was hard enough), because he knew that was a trigger point for Harry. If Harry was having "a day" (as Draco had come to calling them), he wouldn't make him go to the Great Hall, though he tried to make sure he ate regularly. He went out of the way so they could avoid people like Hermione (and Weasley), and left Harry alone when he needed it.

It was strange for Draco. He wasn't used to treating another person like he was treating Harry. He was being  _gracious._ He imagined that if Father knew, he might scold him for "submitting" himself.

Blaise and Theo had begun to make fun of him for it. Draco couldn't really fathom why.

"You're not good with feelings, are you?" Blaise asked him candidly one day.

"I'm  _fine_ with feelings," he countered stiffly. He was good at showing his emotions--more than Father was, certainly. Mother had always reminded him not to "ice himself up" the way Father did. And even last year, Father had admitted that hiding feelings like that was a fault.

And Draco  _knew_ he didn't have any problems with feelings. And if he did... well, what harm would it do to ignore them?

Blaise had laughed at him, and Theo had changed the subject by asking him about how Harry was doing in Defense. 

"The same?" he said tentatively. "I haven't been paying attention, really. I'm focusing on my own studies."

That had set them both off, inexplicably, into a fit of laughter.

And that was mostly how the month went. Laughing with Blaise and Theo, trying to get through classes, and working himself to exhaustion with Harry and the rest of the Quidditch team. They were training for their first game against Gryffindor, which wouldn't be until after Halloween. 

Those weeks went quickly, though. It helped that Harry was in a better mood, even if they didn't have Hermione around anymore. Her presence was missed, and they had even stopped visiting the library. They mostly studied in the Slytherin common room, which was often uncomfortable and distracting.

"I don't see why everyone has to stare," Harry grumbled. 

"They're not staring," Draco replied, glancing up from his drawing. The common room was problematic for him because he always ended up wanting to stare out the window and sketch. Several mercreatures had swum by in the past few days, so he was eager to draw them.

"Yes, they are," Harry insisted, shifting in his spot.

Draco sighed and looked up, and rolled his eyes when he saw that there were hardly more than a dozen other students in the room. Only a few were _actually_ staring, but he supposed it was enough to make Harry uneasy.

"Do you need to go back to the dorm room?" he asked, trying to be patient. Harry almost always said no, and would stay.

"I'm almost done with this essay," Harry replied. "Besides, you're busy drawing. I can wait."

"If you're sure," he replied, going back to shading in the fins of his merman. It wasn't quite what he had hoped it to be. He always made them prettier than they actually were, despite Blaise always insisting on how "wonderfully ugly" he made them.

He forgot about Harry's discomfort for a moment, content to lose himself to the sound of Harry's scribbling and muted chatter from across the room. He barely noticed when they were joined.

"Potter. Malfoy."

They both looked up sharply from their books. A short sixth year girl was staring down at them. Draco thought he might have seen her with Gemma.

"Yes?" Draco asked. Usually, when older Slytherins showed up, it meant bad things. He had learned his lesson after Montague and the brooms.

Harry set down his quill and frowned. "What do you want?" Blunt as always.

"I'm Bridget Salt," she said curtly, and Draco recognized the name from Snape's list. He still had it somewhere in his trunk. "I just wanted to give Potter a fair warning."

That was an immediate red flag for Draco. Why would someone on Snape's list be  _warning_ Harry? Was it a threat? He on edge in the turn of a second.

"Well, out with it," he bristled.

She gave them a curious smile. "You two always stand up for each other, but not for yourselves," she remarked.

"You've been watching?" Draco demanded, gone defensive.

"No." She let out a tiny chuff of laughter. "But you seem to conduct most of your business in the Great Hall, don't you? Anyway, that's not what I'm here to talk about that."

"Alright," Harry said cautiously.

" _The Daily Prophet_ has an article coming out about you, Potter, on Halloween. I suggest you be on your best behavior, or people will get suspicious."

 _Definitely a threat,_ thought Draco. Perhaps names didn't mean anything, even when they were on Snape's list. 

"What about?" Harry asked, sitting up straighter. "And how do you know?"

"I've a cousin who works there. Some of us keep an eye out," she replied casually. "It won't be pretty, though. More of that Parseltongue nonsense. A speculation piece, really. None of it's true, is it?"

"What's not true?" Draco cut in, feeling terribly left out once more. Why didn't he ever hear about these things?

"The Parseltongue nonsense," she replied, sounding impatient. "And that whole bit about You-Know-Who wanting to wipe Potter here out because he didn't want any Dark  _competition."_

Draco cast Harry a sidelong glance. He didn't know what to say.

"Parseltongue is true," said Harry, sounding as nonchalant as if he had just told her his favorite color. He stretched his neck a bit, never breaking eye contact. "But I'm not evil, if that's what you're wondering. I wouldn't support Voldemort."

She flinched at the name, but nodded curtly. "Neither would my family, you know," she said, her voice lowering. "I know you've been here a year, but you ought to know that we're not all about Death Eaters in this House. I can only think of a dozen or so that are."

"We know," Draco snapped. He had a list, after all. Somewhere in his trunk.

"Thanks," Harry replied, and he shot her an awkward smile.

She let out a huff of laughter. "You're too young to be caught up in all this drama. Watch for the article, alright? And I'll try to spread the word." She turned her back and walked away.

Harry was frowning, and he shut his book completely, smothering the essay he had been working on. He moved in closer to Draco by the window.

"How many people do you think believe I'm a Dark Lord?" he asked quietly.

Draco shrugged. "Don't really know," he confessed. "Not many in Slytherin, I bet, not even the Death Eaters. I bet it's all people like Weasley."  _And Hermione,_ he thought, feeling a bit dismayed at that.

"And how many are Death Eaters?" Harry inquired.

"You heard her. A dozen, maybe. I mean, you know, that have parents with Death Eaters. I could ask Father, but he might not tell me." 

Harry just nodded. "That doesn't explain the staring though."

Sighing in exasperation, Draco asked, "You need some fresh air, don't you?" 

"Probably," Harry sighed. "Let's get ready for practice."

* * *

Halloween arrived, and Draco wasn't feeling as mirthful as his classmates. He and Harry both woke up early that morning, dreading the article. They weren't woken by the Squid, and Draco wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

However, something just as strange arrived. A silvery looking, doglike apparition appeared in their dorm, padding up to Harry and circling him a few times. Draco was terrified, but Harry didn't seem nervous at all.

The dog slowed and stood in front of Harry, and then it spoke in Padfoot's voice.

 _There's something in_ The Prophet  _about you today. Please, please ignore it. It's all lies and slander. I didn't let Moony read it, because you know what day it is. I don't want him hurting too much. I'm fine, too. We'll visit the graves and then run it out tonight under the moon, and we'll be alright. Just lie low and take care of yourself, Harry. We love you._

And then the thing ran away, straight through the wall.

"What was that?" Draco demanded. "A ghost?"

"Padfoot's patronus," Harry replied absently, looking somewhat soothed by the visitation, despite the ominous message. "Back when Moony was teaching him how to cast it, it would run all around the house." He spoke fondly, a smile almost blotting out the bags under his eyes.

"Great," Draco replied, a plan formulating. He thought that, maybe, if he could get Harry to focus on happy memories all day, he wouldn't worry so much about the article.

_Lie low._

They went down to the Great Hall together that morning. The halls were filled with more cobwebs than usual, and they had already spotted six ghosts through the halls.

"I don't really remember there being this many," Harry murmured. "Just the House Ghosts."

"Maybe there's something happening today. Full moon or something?" Draco suggested.

"Ghosts don't care about moons," Harry replied, and  took an extra long moment staring at one of the ghosts. "But I suppose it _is_ Halloween."

Draco watched as the ghost disappeared into the wall. "Right, dead are close by and all that nonsense."

"My scar isn't hurting," Harry said, out of the blue.

"Yeah? That's good. I'm hungry."

"What?"

"I thought we were pointing out feelings."

"No, I meant the ghosts aren't making my scar hurt," Harry answered, looking at him like he was mad.

"Obviously not. We made that up, remember?" Draco couldn't help but smile at the memory of their silly antics.

"Yeah... but...."

"But what? And walk faster; we're almost to the Great Hall." In his pursuit of food, he had already forgotten about the newspapers and readers waiting for them in the common room.

Harry grabbed his arm right before they went through the doorway, stopping him while they were still secluded. "What do you think it was, then?" Harry demanded.

"I thought we've been over this. It was the Dark Lord, or whatever monster that had attached itself to Quirrel," Draco answered impatiently. An involuntary shivered traveled down his spine at the memory.

"And it was really Voldemort on his head?" Harry asked, looking mildly panicked.

"Harry, you're being ridiculous," he snapped. "You saw it, too Harry. You heard him talk."

"Yes...but I was hoping that, maybe--maybe something else could explain my scar pains."

_Oh._

"Your scar hasn't been hurting, has it?" Draco asked nervously. He could understand the implications. He didn't want them to be true. He had seen enough of half-dead Dark Lords.

"I'm fine. Let's just go," Harry muttered, and then started dragging Draco into the dining hall.

Luckily, no heads snapped to stare their way. No immediate glares or shouts of protest. There was still the regular mulling chatter, the sound of silverware clinking against plates, and a sweeter smell than normal. Several ghosts had moved to the Great Hall, too, as it seemed, and they seemed to be distracting the students for the most part. 

"More than last year," Draco murmured, pointing at the group of ghosts hovering by the Gryffindor table.

Harry let out a mere huff of indifference, ducking his head as they made their way to the Slytherin table. The first person to notice them, it seemed, was Parkinson. She stared for a moment, and nudged the girl, Millicent Bulstrode, next to her. She, in turn, tapped Daphne Greengrass, who alerted an older student he didn't recognize, and so it went down the table, until everyone was staring.

Draco glared straight at Parkinson, even if the chain reaction would have started without her. He didn't understand why she had to be so sneaky about it; her contempt was clear. If he were in her situation, he would be 

Harry had gone red to the tips of his ears, and just about froze in his place. Draco took action and took him by the sleeve of his robe and tugged him towards where Blaise and Theo were waiting as if nothing was wrong.

Draco sat down at the table. While Harry was busy ducking his head, Draco made sure to make eye contact with half the people who were staring, giving them a sneer.

"And you thought it was bad before, Potter," Theo remarked with a huff.

"Do you have a copy of the paper?" Harry asked stiffly. He was practically hiding under the collars of his robes. If they had a hood, he would have pulled it up completely over his head.

"Yeah," Blaise answered, pulling _The Daily Prophet_ from his lap. It was stained with grease, and it appeared he had been using it a napkin (which it probably deserved. "Got it from Neville, bless him."

Harry snatched it, and Draco read over his shoulder instead of focusing on serving himself some porridge. It wasn't the front page-- _thank Salazar for that._

The headline read, _Harry Potter: Slytherin, Parselmouth, And Possible Dark Lord?_

Draco's stomach reeled immediately. He wanted to snatch the paper away from Harry and  _Incendio_ it immediately, as well as every other copy of it in the entire world. But there was nothing he could do.

He didn't read it. He glared at the rest of the table, wishing he could compel them all to  _not look at Harry._ He was shaking next to him as he read.

"Alright, mate?" Blaise asked, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"F-fine." Harry was chewing incessantly on his lip. "Did you even read this?"

"'Course I did," Blaise answered. "Doesn't mean I believe it. It's not true."

"It's still a harsh accusation, though," Theo pointed out. "And I doubt  _everyone_ read it. Because it's not on the front page."

"I bet Parkinson will have everyone read it by the end of today," Draco murmured. The girl had stopped staring at them, as had most of the table.

"And what good would it do?" Blaise demanded. 

"She'd get everyone to hate Harry!" Draco insisted.

Harry looked up and set down the paper. "Not Parkinson," he muttered. "Bridget Salt."

"What?" Blaise asked, looking around the table. "Isn't she that pretty sixth year? Or someone?"

"Or someone," Draco growled. "She  _did_ sound threatening. Even if she said she wasn't a supporter of the Death Eater stuff."

"I think she didn't believe when I said I wasn't Dark," Harry murmured. "Especially if her relative wrote this. She probably  _wants_ everyone to read this."

 _So much for Snape's list,_ thought Draco. Apparently, there were people even in Slytherin who wanted to ostracize Harry for being Dark.

He turned around to look over at the Ravenclaw table, and met eyes with Hermione. She had a look of panic in her eyes, and she was holding a copy of the  _Prophet,_ crumpled into her fist.

"I don't believe this," she mouthed.

Draco stared, agape. Maybe he was terrible at reading lips?

She must have caught his expression. "I was wrong." 

_What did she figure out? Is it because of this article?_

"Come here and talk," he mouthed back. 

Then, Harry was tugging on his sleeve. "Draco, I'm leaving. Let's get to Transfiguration early today." His voice sounded shaky.

Draco decided that whatever was in the article, it was bad. And ridiculous. And _wrong_.

* * *

Draco couldn't find Hermione for the rest of the day, except for in classes. But she was distant and vague, and made no attempt to talk to them. 

At their last class of the day, in Herbology (they were still working on those ridiculous mandrakes), she passed him a note, telling them to meet her in the library after their Quidditch practice, which was immediately after school that day. 

When they arrived at the library--still sweaty and tired and having just barely gotten away with leaving before doing laps--, Hermione was not there. They decided to wait at their old table for her, and Draco found himself washed in memories of last Halloween. It felt wrong not to have her there, giving dry commentary on their conversations.

"Remember last Halloween?" Draco inquired, trying to busy himself and keep Harry's mind off of bad things (as he had been trying all day). "You were joking about talking to the dead. Right here at this table."

Harry visibly paled.

"Draco." He cleared his throat and looked around. "You've been hearing that, haven't you? Do you think it's a ghost?"

Draco laughed uneasily. "What, is the Bloody Baron behind me? Are you trying to do this again?"

"You don't hear it?" 

"Hear what, Harry?" Draco was beginning to think that this wasn't a joke.

"There's this... _whispering._ I feel like I've heard it before." Harry was beginning to look terrified, but maybe it was just good acting.

"Harry, hearing things isn't good," Draco whispered, hoping desperately that he was just joking.

"Hearing things?" 

They looked over to the other end of the table, where a light-haired girl in Ravenclaw robes was sitting. She was peering at them curiously with bright blue eyes. She was wearing a necklace that looked like it was made out of braided weeds.

"Yes," Harry answered tentatively.

"I hear them sometimes, but not today," she said, and she seemed to be very far away. "I think it's best to listen to those things. Especially on days like these. Full moon, Halloween. It means something."

Harry needed little more incentive, it seemed. He slammed his book and stood up, already making his way to the exit.

"What about Hermione?" Draco whisper-shouted, wary of Madam Pince.

"Come  _on,"_ Harry hissed, and Draco had no choice to run after him.

Once they were in the hall, Harry picked up his pace. Draco was reminded of last Halloween and their other late night wanderings, and immediately felt uneasy.

"Harry," he said nervously, "this isn't a good idea. You remember last Halloween...."

"It's fine," Harry insisted. "Years don't repeat. Just trust me. I can hear this."

"Are you sure this isn't like the scar thing?"

"This is real."

"I know. But what if it's bad? Like... Dark Lord kind of bad."

Harry's step faltered, but he didn't look back. "This won't be a repeat of last year, okay? Just come on."

Filled with apprehension, Draco gave in and followed, though he was extremely nervous. He knew Harry could be full of bad ideas, and following after some voice in his head seemed like a terrible idea.

But of course he followed. He couldn't just abandon Harry if he was walking into danger!

So, they were sneaking through the castle with the same kind of fear as if it were midnight instead of four in the afternoon. Draco tried to tell himself that he was less jumpy than the last time around, but he wasn't.

When the Bloody Baron appeared in front of him, he just about screamed (he did scream). Harry just went deathly still.

"Turn around now," the Baron ordered, and it was the most emotion Draco had ever seen him show.

"Why?" Harry demanded, crossing his arms. There was a tremble in the movement, both defiant and fearful.

"No one wants to be there when the one they care about is hurt," the Baron said, lowering his head, sounding both warning and threatening.

That, of course, set Harry's inner hero off. He broke off into a run, straight through the staggered ghost.

Draco was as equally stunned. "You do realize that would have the opposite effect," he said, immediately breaking into a run after Harry (because apparently he knew where he was going), and making a point to go  _around_ the gloomy ghost.

Quidditch, apparently, was paying off, because he was able to catch up with Harry without wearing himself out. He fell into a jog beside him, and he was grateful for the adrenaline that didn't come from fear for once.

"You really think someone's hurt?" he questioned. It was too frightening to really consider.

"I don't think it's a good thing to ignore the Baron." 

"But you just did the exact opposite of what he told you to."

Harry didn't respond, but he slowed to the stop. "I think it's here," he said at last, a distant look growing in his eye. "My scar aches."

"What exactly are those voices telling you?" Draco asked. He tried to ignore his heart racing in his chest and the fact that his voice was shaky. They were in another dark corridor, this time on the second floor. There was an unimposing door right in front of them, and Harry was about to go in.

"The girls' toilets," he said, looking hesitant.

"Why does it have to be the toilets?" Draco grumbled, unable to stop himself.

Harry shrugged, and there was a moment of comic relief. But then, he was opening the door, and Draco knew that whatever was behind it, he was going to scream. 

There was no monster. 

There was no blood on the floor.

There was, however, a familiar bushy-haired Ravenclaw frozen on the floor. On the mirror, there was a message scrawled in black ink.

_The Chamber has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware._

Draco didn't scream. His breath stopped for a moment, and he was unable to comprehend the scene before him. He wasn't sure if Hermione was dead--she had been so real just that morning, hadn't she? She had smiled. She was alive.

"Hermione." Harry's voice was broken. He sounded mortified. He was on the floor in seconds, his hands on her wrist, checking for a pulse.

"W-well?" Draco asked. What else was she supposed to do.

"I think she's alive..."

There was a clattering and a banging as the door slammed open, and they were faced with Snape, looking as pale as the Baron himself. He took in the scene for a moment, his eyes swimming with wild fear, his face remaining stony.

"Potter. Malfoy. You must get out of here  _immediately."_

"What?" Harry asked, looking stupefied, still clutching Hermione's wrist. She was stiff, as though she were paralyzed.

"What's the matter?" Draco demanded.  _(Everything,_ his brain supplied.)

"A group of students is arriving. If you're caught like this--"

Snape was cut off by small bodies shoving past him, and he froze, looking murderous. A hodgepodge of students was shoving their way into the bathroom, and Draco was on his feet in a moment. He pressed himself to the wall as he filled with panic.

He saw Parkinson, Weasley, Boot, and so many students his mind couldn't even bother to supply the names. It seemed as though half the Great Hall had found them there, and Draco wondered how or why the Baron would make such a public announcement (if he was even the one to rat them out at all).

Parkinson had a smirk set on her lips. "Moaning Myrtle was right," she purred, crossing her arms smugly. "This  _is_ quite the scene."

"All of you, out," Snape demanded, turning on them like a wild animal.

"Why?" a Gryffindor demanded. "So you can clean this up nicely?"

"That's our friend!" a Ravenclaw cried.

 _How are there so many people?_ Draco thought, not even able to imagine the panic Harry was having. Was he still on the floor?

There were more teachers there in a moment, and even they weren't able to settle the chaos. Everything simply moved into the hallway, even Draco and Harry being ushered out. He thought he saw that Creevey boy snapping photographs before Snape dragged him out by the collar.

Madam Pomfrey came fast, and Hermione was being carried away. There was loud chatter that the teachers couldn't even bother to suppress, and they seemed to be acting and feeling the exact same way as the students.

Traumatized.

Draco wasn't sure how long he was trapped in that hallway and the crowd before accusations were being thrown.

"What did I tell you?" Ron Weasley crowed in outrage. "Potter's evil! He must have done this!"

Fred and George looked mildly horrified, and the youngest Weasley seemed to be showing that same emotion times a thousand. Neville seemed to be on the verge of fainting, and beyond that, Draco could hardly make out any familiar faces. 

Except for Parkinson. She was cackling. Several suspicious glances went her way, and he and Harry were spared the extra bit of attention. 

And then, the Headmaster himself was there. Cool and collected as always.

"All of you, back to your dorms." His voice washed over like a wave of candlelight, warm and soothing, only adding to the haziness filling Draco's mind. "This will be settled. There is no possible way a student could have committed an act so Dark as this; there is no one so powerful."

Harry had visibly shrunken at that, and Draco couldn't help but take his arm. He was feeling just as shell-shocked. He had no idea who could have, would have done this to Hermione. 

Before they all left the scene of the crime, Parkinson's voice rose above the chaos.

"Enemies of the Heir? Ha! Watch out, Mudbloods!"

 _The Heir,_ thought Draco, remembering the various nicknames from the other students. He took a moment to observe Harry's expression--fear? guilt? shame? horror?--and wasn't sure if he could come up with a rational decision.

 _It's just a coincidence,_ he told himself.

_Harry couldn't have done this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for disappearing! I was hospitalized and i had zero access to technology. But everything is back to normal and I'm going back to school tomorrow. :)
> 
> And, yeah. The Heir of Slytherin isn't taking it slow this time 'round. No warning acts just with cats.


	13. Lucius Malfoy, Remus Lupin, and the Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucius and Narcissa are not fans of the Prophet. They have not read that hideous gem that is the Halloween article.

"We are hosting a Christmas Party," said Narcissa at the dinner table. She spoke cooly, her spine straight as usual, but her movements slightly more stiff.

Lucius nearly choked on his quail. "We're  _what,_  darling?"

" _We_ are hosting a Christmas party," she repeated, each word enunciated and striking home like sharp, little points.

"I don't think so!" Lucius countered, flinching as the words escaped his mouth. He hadn't even taken a moment to  _think,_ he had spoken rashly. Taking a deep breath, he added, more slowly, "We haven't had proper company in--well, in _years_ , dearest! Why now?" 

The last party-- _gala,_ he corrected himself--had consisted entirely of Death Eaters, and that had not ended well. Someone had gotten a hold of his spiked firewhiskey (spiked with a certain hallucinogen, actually), and then various cherished family relics (charmed, Dark weapons, specifically) had been pulled out, and the night had ended with two dead (priceless!) albino peacocks, three emotionally damaged portraits, and several casualties. That had been when they were wild and young (and evil, really), before Draco was born.

He wasn't sure how they might handle a gathering in their house now.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, and he knew at once that this was a carefully planned answer on her part.

"Sickles for the Sick"--one of her ridiculous charities--"is in need of some good fundraising, and they don't have money enough to hire a proper venue. I offered the Manor," she explained, meeting his eyes with an icy glare, anticipating his first response ( _They're not_ paying _us?)_. "It will look excellent for our image, Lucius, don't you see? With all this negative press going on, it will be good."

Lucius snorted, unable to contain his contempt. "Oh, clearly, that's an  _excellent_ idea!" he scoffed. "Because with our  _abundant_ circle of friends will me most happy to attend! And everyone else, well, I'm sure they would  _love_ to pick apart our estate! I'm sure someone like--oh, I don't know--Parkinson would love to try and find what items the Ministry didn't gather!" 

He was bubbling with anger, but not so much injustice. His magic stayed in check.

"Lower your voice," Narcissa insisted. "I don't see what's gotten into you lately."

"Gotten _into_ me?" he demanded. "Narcissa, these  _goddamned charades_ are what have _gotten into me_! I'm tied to strings here, trying to look all lovely and repaired for the public, trying to keep my _skin_ from melting off, and it's all for  _nothing!"_ He was standing now, unable to stop himself. "This contract was supposed to help us! And now what do I get? Nothing! Everyone still despises us, and I'm rising to power slower than a cauldron of Polyjuice comes to a boil! Because I'm  _tied down._ And now you want people coming into our  _home?"_

Narcissa lifted a hand into the air, and he felt one of her calming spells wash over him. "Sun room," she ordered. "Now."

"It's eight o'clock," he growled, feeling his temper wash away like coarse sand. "There's no sun."

She sent him a look that would falter hippogriffs, and he had no choice but to leave the table and join her in the sun room. He heard the frantic scrabble of anxious house elves cleaning up as they left.

Upon entrance, Narcissa flicked her wand at the ceiling, and the room was lit by a soft purple globe. It was more soothing than moonlight, though it did nothing to wash out the real moon, which was shining and silver and full outside. He was too preoccupied with his own concerns to remember what that would mean for his friend.

"Now," Narcissa said, pushing him into their seat, "we are hosting a Christmas celebration, in our house. I am telling you now so that you have the opportunity to clean out and sell any Dark or illegal objects you might have around the house."

"Come now," he argued. "Dumbledore took those away with the contract. I would be a pile of ash if there were any more Dark objects lying around."

This was, of course, a farce. He hadn't seen it clearly before his recent epiphany, but there was really no way for Dumbledore to sort out the Dark from the Light objects in his home, because there was really no difference. He had removed the dark and spiky things, the ones with suspicious looking runes, but when it came to it, the only thing separating old relics from each other was "dangerous" and "non-dangerous."

And the difference there was not exclusively tied to Dark or Light. As he had been thinking lately, Dark and Light were mere  _social constructs._ Dark didn't have to hurt anyone, just as Light didn't always have to aid someone. There were only cultural differences between the two: who created them and who used him.

It was simply a misfortune that most "Dark" magics and methods had been used the wrong way. They didn't have to be, though.

And he couldn't say that aloud to his wife, lest they both experience excruciating pain for daring to speak the words aloud. There were still old Malfoy relics that he refused to sell or hide away, because they couldn't  _harm_ anyone. And he wouldn't use them to harm anyone!

"Nothing suspicious?" Narcissa asked him slowly. "At all?"

"Not at all, my love," he answered stiffly.  _Nothing they'll find._

"Good." She folded her hands on her lap, and for just a brief moment he missed the usual physical touch they shared in the sun room room. Pavlovian response, as Remus would say. 

"I'm always good, darling," he said smoothly, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

She moved away, her lip curling as though physically revolted.

"Anyway,"--she cleared her throat--"we mustn't do anything to rouse suspicions. We will have the press here, of course, and it will be in the name of improving our reputation. We  _cannot_ ruin this, Lucius."

The mention of the press immediately set him off.

"Why? Why must they be here?" he growled. "They're liars and scoundrels. You've seen what they're doing to Remus and Sirius--we can't possibly  _give them work!"_

"And that brings me to my next point," she added quickly, stiffly. "Remus and Sirius will not be in attendance. Their current reputation as is will be enough to harrow ours."

He bit back a gasp and crossed his legs.

"Reputation," he growled. It was something that he cared deeply about, but not as much anymore, considering how what good it had done for him. "How could their reputation possibly hurt ours, Narcissa? Have you been listening too closely to the tabloids? Or perhaps Dumbledore."

"People are starting to worry that Harry's gone Dark," Narcissa reminded him, sounding impossibly quiet. "If they see that we're involved with them, with Harry... the blame may be pointed at us."

Lucius bit back a harsh bark of laughter, tilting his head back against the back of the seat as he took a deep breath.

"It's too late for that, isn't it?" he inquired. "Dumbledore is already watching us. We're already on the throne of blame."

"Lucius, please," Narcissa pleaded. "We'll do what we can to protect ourselves. And that means keeping your friends out of the public picture for some time."

"My friends? Aren't they yours as well?"

Narcissa bit her lip and did not respond immediately. After several long moments of silence, she stood up.

"I am going to bed," she announced, already walking away. "And we are hosting the event here, whether you approve or not. I suggest you start cleaning out your closets. We wouldn't want anyone to find your old skeletons, would we?"

"I don't have any skeletons!" he called after her, but she was already gone.

He let out a long sigh and decided there were some rooms he needed to look through.

-

Remus woke to the sound of movement downstairs.

His body was sore, his was head throbbing, and his extremities were cold. He was wrapped in blankets, and he could feel every bit of grime on his skin and every new cut from the night before.

Sirius was not next to him, so he assumed that he must have gotten up to make breakfast. The bedsheets were tousled and untidy, and the empty spot was cold. Remus knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again, so he heaved himself out of bed. Sleeping in after a full moon was only enjoyable if Sirius was next to him.

His movement felt heavy over the cold floor as he trudged into the living room. The curtains were drawn shut and the fireplace was nothing but glowing embers. It was the ideal way to keep things after a night like the last, so nothing seemed out of sorts.

That is, until he turned to the left and saw a tall, silver-bearded man standing in front of the wall, staring at old photographs.

Remus nearly jumped out of his skin. "Merlin!" he exclaimed, drawing his wand and aiming it at the intruder, before properly realizing who he was. It didn't mean he felt inclined to lower his wand, however.

"I'm flattered," murmured Dumbledore, "but I'm not Merlin."

 _Clearly not,_ thought Remus.  _Merlin was a Slytherin._

"Where's Sirius?" he demanded. Sirius would have woken him, warned him about their unwelcome visitor.

"I saw his motorcycle was gone," Dumbledore replied cooly. "Perhaps he went for a ride."

Remus felt his breath catch. Sirius never left like that on mornings like this. He wouldn't have just  _left._ Something was wrong.

"Why are you here?" Remus asked slowly, picturing all the things that could have gone wrong... Was there a struggle? Was this Dumbledore's fault? Had they finally done something to push the headmaster over the edge?

"I've come to talk about Harry." Dumbledore moved away from the wall and towards the sofa and the fireplace. "It's a bit dark in here, isn't it? Allow me to let in some light." He flicked his wand at the curtains and they flew open. Remus was immediately blinded by the light.

"I'm a bit sensitive at the moment," he growled, stalking over to shut them again. His arms quivered as he did so. He was trying his best to control his impulses, but he felt panicked. Threatened.After fighting a war and being a werewolf for nearly all of his life, there were certain things that set him off. People intruding his house was one of them.

He wasn't just paranoid. He was traumatized. And he did not want Dumbledore's fuckery bothering him right after a full moon.

"Well, I suppose the curtains can remain shut," Dumbledore muttered, making himself comfortable on the sofa. 

Remus remained standing, despite the fact that his muscles ached and he felt as though his bones were quivering. He was too antsy to sit.

"Are you going to tell me why you're here?" he demanded. 

"Calm, now, Remus. I don't know what's gotten into you. You seem as shaken up as the day I met you at Sirius' flat after the Potters died."

Remus clenched his fist, not allowing himself to be antagonized. That day, he had been filled with an uncomfortable rage, shaken by recent events. This day was not so bad, but the collective happenings of the past several months were enough to work him into a bad mood.

And, there was the fact that he had lost any and all respect for Dumbledore. 

"I am a bit shaken," he growled in response. "Now, are you here to shake me up more, or is this just a friendly chat?"

"I don't mean to aggravate you, old friend," the headmaster replied, shoving his glasses up his nose. "But before I go on, I must ask--has Harry communicated with you in the past few days?"

Remus stiffened.  _What could have gone wrong?_ His mind supplied a hundred different scenarios. Quidditch accident gone wrong, an angry outburst from another student (or Snape), food poisoning....

"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Hmm." Dumbledore frowned and watched Remus curiously for a moment. "Well, it might be against young Mr. Potter's wishes, but as his guardian, you have the right to know..."

"What?" Remus snapped, feeling all his resolve go down the drain. "What happened to  _my son?"_

"Nothing," Dumbledore replied, and Remus could hear the implied  _You don't have a_ son." _Harry_ is perfectly alright. Though, some people think he is the blame for a recent tragedy--"

The door slammed open, startling Remus once more. He did not draw his wand or do anything brash, however, because it was Sirius. He was soaked (it must have been raining)--his hair was clinging to his face and his leather jacket looked just about ruined.

His eyes locked on Dumbledore immediately.

"Get out of my house, Albus," he snarled. "Leave Remus and I alone. I don't want anything to do with you or your bloody contracts right now."

Dumbledore stood. "I don't see any reason for your contempt, Sirius. I've done nothing."

"I got Harry's letter," Sirius said, and pulled a damp sheet of parchment from his jacket pocket. 

Remus moved to his side to take the letter, but he didn't read it. He clung to Sirius and watched Dumbledore, unsure if it was panic or curiosity that was making his pulse quicken.

"And I've done nothing to Harry," Dumbledore said calmly. "Why are you angry at  _me?"_

"I'm just _angry_!" Sirius shouted, and Remus flinched. "I'm angry at everything right now, and the last thing I need is you hanging around my home and worrying my partner!"

"What's going on, Sirius?" Remus whispered, and he reached out to touch him.

Sirius relaxed minutely at the touch, but his eyes looked fiery. "People are saying Harry is the Heir of Slytherin," he gritted, never ceasing his focus on Dumbledore. 

"They're _what_?"

"Perhaps you should let me stay and explain," cooed Dumbledore, drifting back onto the sofa. 

"Explain? Do you have anything to do with these rumors?" He took two sharp steps forward, and it made black dots swim in front of his vision. His knees buckled. He felt Sirius' rain-soaked arms hold him upright as he regained himself.

"Let's sit down," Sirius gritted into his ear, emanating cold. Without even thinking, Remus cast a nonverbal drying charm on him, because he knew that Sirius was terrible with them. In turn, he was carried to the sofa, because the magic drained him more than it should have. 

He could have fallen asleep, sitting on the sofa in Sirius' now warm and dry lap, and fully exhausted from the previous night's full moon. But Dumbledore was there, and he was beginning to talk.

"Harry was caught in a rather compromising position," Dumbledore began, disgustingly tactful as usual. "A student was found paralyzed in a bathroom, and there was a message scrawled on the wall, declaring that the Chamber of Secrets has been opened, and threatening 'enemies of the Heir.'" His face remained composed as usual, unattached to the situation as usual.

"And how was Harry involved?" Remus demanded, fearing the worst.  _He wouldn't,_ he thought.  _Not my Harry._

Sirius' voice buzzed into his ear, tense with fear and contempt. "He was the one who found the student."

Dumbledore nodded. "However, the student was someone he had reportedly begun to have conflicts with. Along with the release of the article on Halloween, this has driven people to believe that Harry was responsible."

Remus lost all control of his thoughts and words.

"What article? Why don't I know about this? And  _don't you dare_ insinuate that Harry would do such a thing. You're not going to kick him out, are you?"

He could feel Sirius clutching him, blunt nails digging into his arms and side. He ignored it, watching Dumbledore and that glistening, greasy fire in his eyes.

"There was an article I didn't show you," Sirius confessed. "Another article about Harry. Someone who wasn't blackmailing us wrote it. It was very bad."

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Which grants us the perfect opportunity to discuss something that I have held from you for many, many years."

Sirius stiffened all over. "And you think it's only a good time to talk about us because it's been published in the fucking  _Daily Prophet?"_ he demanded, and Remus didn't even bother trying to squirm out of his iron grip. "Yeah, let's be the last ones to know!"

"Calm yourself," Dumbledore ordered cooly. "You wouldn't want to hurt Remus."

"Is that a fucking threat, you slimy bas--" Sirius cut off and removed his hands from Remus, apparently realizing that he had trapped him on his lap and was cutting into his already-sore skin with his nails. "Oh, fuck, Moons. I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

Remus took the opportunity to move off. "It's alright," he whispered. He was feeling too poorly to bother with any of this. "Just talk at us, Dumbledore." 

As Dumbledore began to explain a long series of theories and facts about the Potters' death, the disappearance of the Dark Lord, and Harry's abilities, Remus fought the urge to just let himself slip into unconsciousness and escape it all. Sirius was chewing on his lip until it bled, wringing his hands together until they were raw. 

Remus would have comforted him, but he was too disturbed to do anything. He only wondered why half of this hadn't been mentioned earlier.

In the end, Remus was dumbfounded. The Headmaster had just gone through a dozen elaborate theories and one long and complicated plan. 

"Do we tell Harry?" Remus asked. "He needs to know."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. "Harry cannot know any of this," he whispered gravely. "It would have been the same even if you were not his guardians. He must learn these things on his own. We must protect him from these things, or else the plan will go awry. Things have already gone too off balance..."

"Then why bother telling us?" Sirius demanded stiffly. "Why tell us all these things that could  _help_ our son? Why make us keep all this inside?"

"Because you were beginning to question my motives," Dumbledore answered. "I could not hide everything from you any longer. You must understand these things to fulfill your parts."

Remus could understand that, though his mind was protesting, telling him that it was wrong.  _Does he really expect Harry to--_

"You can't force us." Sirius' voice had gone low with rage, leaning forward to stare Dumbledore down. "We never signed a contract. You can't hold us to the things you hold Lucius to."

Dumbledore laughed, cold and light. "Lucius told you, did he? That can't do. He's already straying from his own part of the plan. He seems to think he can survive this world without my help." His smile disappeared as he met Sirius' glare with cool, unwavering eyes. "But you two owe me more than he does. And if you tell anyone, especially Harry, I  _will_ know, and I will have to do something to protect you. Straying from the plot will hurt you."

_He thinks himself some kind of mastermind. Or savior._

Sirius went quiet, though Remus recognized the white-hot rage emanating from him.

"Fine," Remus said. "We won't tell Harry. We'll do as you ask. But... can't you fix this nonsense with Harry?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "You are hardly in a situation to barter, Mr. Lupin."

And then the bastard apparated away.

Sirius melted into the sofa at once, letting out a long and frustrated scream.

Remus wanted to do the same, but of course he instead felt the exhaustion wave over him. He was quickly enveloped into nightmares, full of chaos.

That was what his life had become. Bedlam. Disarray. 

_Chaos._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to cut down on the chapters from the parents' perspectives. It's complicating the plot too much. What do you guys think?  
> And yes, the kids cannot know all of Dumbledore's secret knowledge and plans. But if you're wondering, it's basically everything that Harry knows by the end of the Half-Blood Prince with some twists that you will learn along with Draco and Harry.  
> Oh, gods, there is so much drama happening in this story.
> 
> And, uh, if you're waiting for an In Like A Lion update.... Soon?? I haven't written up the chapter yet. :/


	14. Chapter 14

Rumors traveled fast in Hogwarts. It might have been the owls, it might have been the close quarters, but it was most likely the fear.

Everyone had their own theories for the attack on Hermione Granger. Most of them blamed the mysterious Heir of Slytherin, and most of those theories involved Harry. 

The Ravenclaws were evenly divided on the conflict, only half of them blaming Harry. They had the most solid theories. (Muggleborn. Fighting with Harry. Apparently talking about his Darker traits. Apparently, that was enough.)

Draco knew that it wasn't Harry, of course. He was  _Harry Potter,_ after all. Draco's best friend. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who had taken the time to care about him.

They visited her in the Hospital Wing most days. She was unmoving, unconscious. Draco couldn't imagine how she would feel when she woke. A single day of missing classes would have been enough to strike her into a terror, and it had already been a week.

And, according to Madam Pomfrey, they had some time yet. She wasn't sure how to heal her, or even if she could bring her back. All the teachers were working on a solution. Nothing, so far.

Harry was more distraught than Draco. He had taken to sulking in the dorms, and Draco just about had to drag him to lessons. The rumors must have been getting to him, because his head hung low as he walked the halls, and he avoided eye contact.

The apparent guilt didn't help prove his innocence. 

Luckily, however, it seemed the teachers were on their side. McGonagall, despite her cool attitude, spoke plainly to her class that she would not tolerate any pointing fingers regarding the incident. Dumbledore himself announced that he was of the opinion that no student could have used that kind of dark magic to hurt Hermione.

And then there was Snape.

"Potter. Malfoy. When does Quidditch practice begin?"

"Half past four, sir," Draco answered, already beginning to put his books into his bag as the rest of the class exited. It was the last class of the day, and he was looking forward to relaxing in the common room. Harry looked like he needed a long nap.

"Excellent. You have time for a meeting with me, then." It was not a question.

"We won't be late for practice?" Harry asked, looking slightly sour.

Snape's head turned as he stared at Harry, his face completely blank and still. Both Draco and Harry swallowed in fear, and Harry seemed to be regretting his words.

"You do not worry about Quidditch. Your Head of House comes first."

"Yes, sir," answered Draco.

"Yes, sir," groaned Harry.

"My office." Snape snapped close the book containing his lesson plans, and with a swoosh of his robes, he was leading them out of the classroom.

The Head of Slytherin's office had not changed much from what Draco remembered. There was a new photograph frame on the desk that he didn't remember seeing, but it was facing the wrong way, so he didn't get to see what it was.

Harry looked wary as he stood behind the black leather chair, which Draco took a seat in immediately. Harry shot him an ungrateful look and was forced to sit on the arm of the chair.

Snape did not offer an alternative for Harry as he sat down and clasped his hands over the top of the desk.

"Now," he said slowly, narrowing his eyes, "I would like to hear from the two of you what exactly conspired three nights ago."

"Harry didn't do it, sir!" Draco insisted immediately, earnestly. 

"I was following my scar," Harry answered drily, dipping his head in embarrassment as he said that.

"Ah, yes," Snape growled, his stony eyes focused slowly on Harry. "Because that _always_  turns out well for you, Mr. Potter."

The tips of Harry's ears turned red. "I have to make sure nothing bad happens."

"And, yet, Mr. Potter, I am under the impression that your scar-feelings have not aided in any positive way. It has done nothing but put both you and your friends in danger." His voice was low, quiet, and Draco knew that was the professor's clearest expression of rage. 

"He didn't put me in danger," Draco insisted in an effort to divert some of the rage from Harry. "I followed him. It's my fault."

"And you, Mr. Malfoy," Snape snapped. "You seem to have a bad habit of following your heart. I thought you might have inherited at least some of your mother's logic. Apparently not."

Draco just hung his head, feeling properly ashamed. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Save your apologies," the professor said brusquely. "Now, you must tell me the truth. Do you know, Mr. Potter, what has been causing these sensations in your scar?"

"No, sir." Harry shook his head.

Snape thought on that for a moment, watching Harry closely. He opened his mouth to speak, but then winced minutely and shut his mouth. "And it appears I cannot say. Is there anything particularly strange about the night of the event that I should know of?"

Harry looked up at Snape and met his eye. His jaw set, he said, "No, sir."

Draco thought that was a lie. He knew Harry didn't particularly like Snape, and he knew that Harry hadn't even disclosed the information with his parents, but if the professor had called them here for a meeting, it was important that he know.

"Yes, there was," Draco said, ignoring the Harry's groan of protest. "Harry was hearing voices. I heard nothing."

Snape's eyebrows shot up, a controlled expression of interest. He leaned forward across the desk, and he was staring so intently at Harry it appeared that it seemed as though he could have read his mind.

"Was it Parseltongue, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked slowly.

"Yes, sir." Harry flinched as he said it. "But I'm not the Heir of Slytherin! I swear! I would know!" His voice was rising in panic, and he stood up.

Draco stood as well, and grabbed his arm. "We know, Harry. Calm down."

Harry looked at him with wild eyes, but took a deep breath. Draco let him take the seat in the chair, settling on standing behind it and leaning on the back.

"I believe that it is undoubtable that the Heir of Slytherin is responsible for the attack"--Snape's eyes settled on Harry's scar--"but I have yet to determine who the Heir of Slytherin is. There are, however, some things you should know about the Heir and the Chamber before you continue throwing around the name."

"Throwing around, sir? Everyone has," said Draco, excited to have someone speak plainly. Too often adults held the information from him.

"And most 'everyone' has no idea what they are talking about," Snape returned, settling back into his chair. "In fact, this is not the first time that someone has been wrongly accused of being the Heir."

"Oh?" Draco inquired, tapping his fingers on the top of the back of the chair. Harry, his head several inches beneath Draco's hand, remained silent.

"Yes, but that is not my story to tell," Snape answered, frowning slightly. "No. It's irrelevant. But allow me to explain the history behind the Heir of Slytherin, because I'm afraid your  _actual_ history professor is too incompetent to understand that it is not a myth."

Draco snorted. "He's been too stuck rambling about the Goblin Wars to notice anything happen past fifteen hundred." 

Harry's shoulders shook from a small bout of quiet laughter.

Snape was not amused. "The story starts much sooner than that, Draco," he said. "It began with the founders of the four Houses. Salazar Slytherin, and I do hope you weren't so daft that you couldn't infer that."

Draco thought he could have if he spent a minute thinking about it.

"It was an argument between Slytherin and the rest. It was his opinion that muggleborn students should not be admitted to the school. It would be because of this argument that he left the school altogether, but first, he built the legendary Chamber of Secrets as a cruel sort of farewell gift. It is said to contain a monster that only one person can control."

"The Heir of Slytherin," said Harry, sitting up taller, his hair now touching Draco's resting hands. "And it was the monster that attacked Hermione, wasn't it?" 

"Yes, very good; I thought you were more clever than your father," Snape chuckled darkly. "And therefore, there must be an Heir to have set it upon your friend."

Draco frowned, pulling his hands away and standing up completely. "But, Professor, can't it act on its own behalf? What if no one's controlling it, and it's just attacking blindly?" he inquired. That would make the situation easier, wouldn't it?

"I'm afraid not," the professor answered quietly. "There must be an Heir to have released the Beast in the first place. And, as you might have inferred, the Heir must be able to speak Parseltongue."

"So people have said," Harry grumbled, slouching over again as he crossed his arms.

"But surely there's more than one Parselmouth out there," Draco said, trying to assure Harry. "It doesn't have to be you."

Snape's laugh was dry and unsympathetic. "Mr. Potter is the first and only Parselmouth since the Dark Lord himself."

"Voldemort?" Harry asked. "Why both of us? Why would I--"

"That is what we are all asking, Mr. Potter," Snape cut in, his lip curling. "As you can guess, that is part of why people seem to believe you are a Dark Lord yourself. Considering the remarkable parallels between you and the Dark Lord himself, accompanied by the fact that you managed to kill him as a babe, it is the straight path of logic to believe that you are just as, if not more, powerfully Dark."

A lightbulb seemed to go off in Draco's head.  _That's why people fear him._

"What parallels?" Harry asked, his voice small and drained. Draco thought he had paled in the past minute.

"Firstly--"

"Severus." Dumbledore's voice interrupted from the floo, just as the Headmaster himself stepped through the fireplace. "Don't you think that's a bit much to be sharing with a few second years?"

"Albus," Snape answered cooly, rising from his chair. "How long have you been listening?"

Dumbeldore laughed and his eyes twinkled. "Oh, I'm always listening, Severus," he said cheerfully, as though that weren't a completely ominous statement.

"Of course," Snape answered. "I have not violated any school regulations, though. Surely you needn't interrupt my meeting with these boys."

"Not a school regulation," the headmaster agreed ambivalently. "But, please, don't be alarmed. Now, boys, you must remember that the Chamber is nothing more than a myth. Nothing that two young boys should be concerned about--or go searching for." His eyes fell on Harry, and then Draco, spelling out a law he expected them to adhere to.

"Yes, sir," Harry gritted, not at all looking pleased.

"Excellent." Dumbledore smiled at him, but it did not reach his eyes. "Now, despite the rumors involving you, this is not an issue you should be concerned with. I have dealt with the reporter who published that slander, and I will be making an announcement to the school. I am very sorry that this ever had to concern you."

"Will that be all, Headmaster?" Snape asked cooly, squaring his shoulders to stand even with the elder.

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. "Actually, Severus, I had come here to speak with you. If you might excuse the boys?"

Draco thought he noticed Snape roll his eyes as he sighed, but he couldn't be sure.

"Misters Potter and Malfoy, you are free to go," he said curtly. "Don't be late to your Quidditch practice."

Harry practically leaped out of the chair. "We won't be!"

"Thank you," Draco added, already slipping towards the door.

Snape nodded at them. "Oh, and, Mr. Malfoy?"

They both paused at the door.

"Your mother wrote me to remind you to use the hair gel she sent you bit. She says it would help polish your look." 

Draco flinched as he nodded in comprehension. "Thank you, sir," he grumbled, shuffling out of the room. He wouldn't touch the pasty stuff if he could help it. He felt stuck up when he wore it, and not even Father liked it. No one wore their hair like that. Not even Lockhart. 

"You have hair gel?" Harry asked with a snicker once they were back in the dungeon hallway.

"And you won't see me use it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the chapter. Thanks, Snape, for being straight up with us. Sorry if it's short. More soon!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this is Quidditch. I usually find that boring, but I actually had fun writing this. It's kind of nonessential to the plot, really. It got a little out of hand, so the plot idea I had will have to wait for next chapter.

After weeks of training, the first Quidditch game of the year came. 

It was mid-November. It was cold, but the sky was clear aside from a few cirrus clouds streaking like cotton wisps thousands of meters in the air. There was only a teasing breeze, and the frost glittered on the field. 

The Slytherin Quidditch team arrived early, at eight-thirty in the morning. They all flew rounds on their Malfoy-supplied brooms, and they were grateful for it that day. Even Montague didn't throw a taunt at Draco.

He was grateful for that. He had enough nerves already.

Harry flew on his own broom, a Nimbus 2000 that his fathers had bought for him, instead of the one Draco's father supplied. It sat dejected in the broom shed while Harry zipped around, fractionally slower than the rest of the team. He made up for it in agility, though, thought Draco.

Draco himself kept close to the ground, feeling slightly nauseous, and not wanting to over-exert himself before the game. He ran a few laps beforehand just to warm himself up, but then mostly clung to the sidelines.

The Gryffindor team arrived not long after that. Wood led them to the field, looking a little haughty, but the rest of his team didn't look so confident. Their smallest member, a fourth year he thought was their Seeker, was the only one not carrying a broom. He looked nervous, fidgety.

The Slytherin team didn't regard the Gryffindors, and continued practicing on the field. Draco was the only one who hung back to observe them, standing next to the bleachers as he stretched.

He saw Harry circle lower in the sky as the Gryffindors began to loudly bicker.

"You need to give your broom to Chancey! It's more important our Seeker is quick than our Beater," one of the girl team members was insisting. She was standing with her arms cross, leaning offensively over towards the Weasley twins. Draco had long since given up trying to differentiate them.

"No way! I'm not giving up my broom!" Twin One shouted, taking a step towards her.

"Me neither!" Twin Two cried, looking ready to knock someone over.

"Work it out!" Wood exclaimed, stalking over to break them apart. "Listen, this comes down to strategy. Do we want to win with our Seeker, or by knocking out their players?"

"Knocking them out," both the twins responded immediately.

"S'what we usually do," an older looking player added sheepishly.

"Alright," Wood said, "but we knew the Slytherin Seeker back then, and he was shite. What do we know about Potter?" 

"He's good," Twin Two said quickly.

"Really good," Twin One added.

"Then give Chancey your broom!" the same girl growled.

"Chancey?" Wood asked. "Do you feel confident using a school broom?"

"I'm not taking their brooms!" Chancey insisted. "I'll be fine. Potter's just a second year."

"And a Dark Lord," Twin One snickered.

"Really want to  _chance_ that?" Twin Two added. He laughed as he and his brother high-fived.

Draco hadn't been paying attention to them, but Harry dove in on his room towards the Gryffindors. Draco thought it might be a good idea to step in as long as Harry was there. As he stepped out of the shadows to jog over, the interaction continued.

"Speak of the Devil," the twins quipped.

Harry glowered at them. "I'm not evil. You two know that."

"Just poking fun, friend," Twin One said with a lazy grin.

Wood took a step forward to confront Harry. "Social calls later, Potter. We don't want any Slytherins spying on us before the game."

"It's not spying if I can hear you shouting from twenty meters away," Draco said, having arrived.

"Malfoy!" the twins exclaimed, seeming strangely delighted.

Harry ignored it. "Listen, Draco's right. You lions need to keep it quiet--and I can say that, because I live with a couple of them at home." 

Draco bit back a laugh, instead raising his eyebrows at the slightly stunned team.

"And anyway," Harry continued, "I'm not spying, okay? If your Seeker needs a broom, I have an extra you can borrow." He met the Gryffindor Seeker's eyes, awaiting protest.

"I don't need your charity," Chancey spat.

"It's not charity," said Harry curtly. "It's fairness. Our entire team got a donation of good brooms. I can give you mine." His face remained even.

Draco couldn't imagine that he was being serious. The entire team had fallen quiet, and he noticed that some Slytherins had come to watch--notably Flint, who was watching with narrowed eyes. He wasn't moving to stop them.

Of course, Draco thought, Harry would be trying to do the right thing. In the wake of all the terrible news about him, it would do some good to do something considered righteous.

But Draco would have never done it. With an inner cringe, he thought of another way that he was "bad."

"What's the catch?" Wood asked, tilting his head. "You're a Slytherin. It must be hexed."

"It's not. I'll swear by it," Harry said solemnly. "If anything wild happens to your Seeker on that broom, I'll be blamed for it immediately. No Slytherin is that daft."

Draco snickered in agreement. "If we wanted to hex your brooms, we would have done it more secretly."

"Then why risk being blamed?" the girl from before asked. 

"Because I know nothing will go wrong," Harry replied, "and it's the right thing to do."

Wood was quiet for a moment, and all eyes were fixed on him.

"Chancey? I think you should take the broom. Just for this game, until yours gets repaired." He sounded resolute.

There was a group exhalation, and then the anticipating group began to drift away as if on cue. After a moment, the only people left were Draco, Harry, Wood, and Chancey. Flint was still hanging back a distance.

"I'll go show you the room," said Harry, and Chancey followed after him.

"Marcus is going to kill him," Wood chuckled, turning his head to glance at Flint. The other team captain curled his lip, but shot a discreet wave with his hand.

"Won't that be convenient for you," Draco replied, noticing the stands were filling with the first few viewers.

"Not really," Wood said absently. "Even if he catches the Snitch, it's always good to have more clean players on the field." He seemed pensive for a moment, still watching Flint.

The Slytherin captain nodded at them both, and then mounted his broom and flew into the sky again.

Wood chuckled to himself. "You better get going, Malfoy. And good luck, from one Keeper to another." He walked away, and Draco watched him in confused awe.

It was going to be an interesting game.

* * *

 

"Alright, boys," Flint said lowly, speaking to the huddled team. "We've got an advantage with the brooms, but don't be lazy because of it. I want you playing your best. If you need to play dirty, play dirty."

There was a grumble of agreement. Harry grimaced, hoping it wouldn't give their team any fouls.

"Except for you, Montague. If I catch you throwing fists or elbows or feet or _anything,_ I'll have to kick you off the team. You heard what Snape said." 

There was a collective snickering after Flint's blatant (and successful) attempt at shaming Montague, who ducked his head.  

"Yeah, sure," he growled.

"Beaters, you know the game. The Weasleys can play it tough, so be careful. I don't want any broken bones today, alright?" Flint continued, looking slightly exasperated.

"Yeah, we know," Carter grumbled.

"Hey, it wasn't me!" Muller exclaimed, elbowing Carter with a snigger.

"Shut it, boys," Flint interrupted. His gaze swept over to Draco. "Malfoy. This is your first game. Obviously, you won't be going head to head with Wood, but he's _good_. Trust me. You'll have to keep your game up, alright? We don't want the other team scoring."

Draco, who always stood straighter when someone started talking to him, nodded attentively. "I'll do my best."

"Good. But it's up to us Chasers to make your job easier, and Wood's harder. I'm obviously best"--Harry rolled his eyes and the _modesty_ \--"but the rest of you, keep it up. Triangle formation for today, alright? Bell and Johnson never seem to be able to keep up with that one. They say Spinnet busted her shoulder, but let's not put our guard down."

"Alright," Montague muttered dejectedly. He wasn't a very good Chaser in the first place, but he had been removed from the Beater position after he nearly killed a Hufflepuff the year before.

"You got it," Pucey answered, grinning with obvious pre-game adrenaline.

"And Potter. You've made the game harder for yourself, so you better know how to handle yourself. That clear?" he demanded, meeting Harry's eyes with that same stony, cool gaze.

Harry didn't flinch. "I promise it's easier for me in the long run." 

It was obviously a charitable act, something not typically Slytherin. But a small voice in his head assured him it was  _very_ Slytherin, because in the end it was only for his gain. 

If word got around that he helped a Gryffindor, maybe there would be less negative talk about him. 

"I'm not even going to try and figure out what that means," Flint sighed. "Now, get your room. Game starts in five."

Everyone scattered to get their brooms, but the aggravated Montague hung back.

"Some Heir of Slytherin you are, Potter," he growled, sauntering closer to Harry. "You're all soft. I don't even know how you got into this House, let alone this Team."

Harry turned his cheek and pretended to busy himself by rubbing at a spot on his broom. "Don't pick on me just because you're embarrassed with yourself," he grumbled.

"I'm not embarrassed," Montague spat, and Harry could feel him looming over him, his pungent breath stinging against his skin. "You're the one who should be embarrassed."

"Montague, what did I tell you?" Flint called. "Hands off! Especially off other team members."

Montague let out an angry grunt and took a step away. "You better catch that Snitch, Potter," he hissed.

"Count on it," Harry answered, carrying his broom over to where Draco had resumed his stretching. He looked anxious.

"Big bloke bothering you again?" Draco asked, looking up as he held his feet with his hands.

"S'alright," Harry answered, looking up at the stands, which were filled with spectators. "Lots of people here today. Are you excited?"

"I think so," Draco answered, switching positions to stand and stretch his arms. "A little nervous. Hopefully Flint and the other Chasers keep the Quaffle away from me."

"You'll be fine."

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the other team members began lining up. Harry and Draco shared one last look, then grabbed their brooms and sprinted to the center of the field.

Madam Hooch stood between Flint and Wood, hands on her hips and watching them curiously.

"Alright, kids," she said, her voice booming over the stadium. "I want a good, clean game. No biting, hitting, punching, hexing, or anything else. I know you're all hot rivals, but let's take it easy."

Harry noticed that Flint was smirking devilishly, but then the whistle blew, and they were all mounting their brooms and shooting into the air. The wind in his ears almost drowned out the screaming cheers from the stands, which were completely packed.

Rightly so, as it was the first and most competitive game of the year.

The Gryffindor Seeker, Chancey, rose into the air a little to sharply. Harry bit back a smirk; he must have been unused to the quicker and more responsive broom.

Well, Harry couldn't be blamed if the other Seeker wasn't an adept flier. He  _had_ given him the better broom, after all. It just seemed as though Chancey was unable to control it.

Harry took a moment to watch in amusement as he wobbled and tried to get a grip on how to fly the Nimbus 2001. But then he saw a flash of gold near the Slytherin goal hoops, and he decided to shoot off after that.

For a moment, he was elated that he had seen it so early. Imagine how easy that would be--catching the Snitch right off the bat! 

But that would be a boring game. Or, so he consoled himself as the Snitch zipped off and disappeared. He caught Draco's eye, who gave him a sympathetic look.

"Good luck!" Harry shouted at him as he flew higher to search for the Snitch again.

"You, too!" Draco shouted back, waving. He jumped as he saw the Quaffle flying towards him, but managed to catch it and throw it back at Flint.

"And the new Keeper, Malfoy, catches the Quaffle, despite being distracted by his own teammate!" the announcer, Lee Jordan, exclaimed.

Harry laughed at Draco's flustered reaction, feeling pleased with himself, even if he distracted him. He decided that he couldn't let himself get distracted, though. Soon, Chancey would figure out the broom, and Harry would have to be careful.

He watched as one of the twins (Fred, he guessed) shot a Bludger straight at Montague. The former Beater's first reaction was to swing at it, and it crushed his hand. His scream could be heard all over the pitch, and there was a loud gasp from the stands.

The game resumed as Montague was tended to, and things got a whole lot harder for the Slytherin Chasers.

And Draco.

Harry felt sorry for him as he resumed his hunt for the Snitch.

* * *

The second Montague hit the ground, Draco knew the game was going to go badly. Not that he wasn't delighted to see the bully get hurt. He just knew he needed as many Chasers as possible to make his job easier.

Flint was working extra hard to keep the Quaffle on the Gryffindor side. He and Pucey worked in tandem after years of playing together, but Wood managed to repel most of their shots.

Draco knew he wouldn't be as quick as him when the Gryffindor Chasers brought the Quaffle to him.

He zig-zagged in front of the goals anxiously, constantly reminding himself to focus on the game instead of his own worries. Occasionally, when the Quaffle was clearly very far away, he would keep an eye out for Harry, who was being trailed by Chancey. He was a wobbly flier. The good broom was obviously to quick for him. It looked like it was going to fly out of his grasp, which kept Harry in the advantage.

Draco was stunned from his thoughts as he saw the Gryffindor girls passing the Quaffle over to his side. He gulped, and made sure his legs held most of his weight on the broom, only holding loosely with his hands.

When they slammed the Quaffle in his direction, he was actually surprised that he caught it for the second time. He'd always had good reflexes, he supposed. And the big Quaffle was much easier to catch than the Snitch.

He passed it to Pucey this time, and he and Flint successfully managed to bring it to the Gryffindor side. They scored two goals.

Then, Draco missed the Quaffle once. And caught it three more times. There was excessive cheering, and he heard some impressive commentary from the booth.

A little cocky now from pride, he let it slip again as the Gryffindors scored another goal.

It went on for another half hour, and they let Montague into the air again. He started getting angry, though, and was bumping into the Gryffindor players. 

The Slytherins got fouled, and the game was beginning to feel slow.

That was, of course, until Harry almost got hit by a Bludger.

* * *

It came fast, and he heard it before he saw it.

It was a shame, really, because Harry had just saw the Snitch, and he was certain he was going to catch it.

Then, the bludger slammed into his side, and he heard his arm go  _crunch_ as he lost his balance. His broom tipped, and he started hurtling towards the ground head first.

On the bright side, though, the Snitch decided to dive into his path halfway down, and he somehow managed to grab it with his good arm.

He didn't hear the cheering or the awestruck commentary as he slammed into the ground, still clutching the Snitch. He felt himself collide with the grass, immediately soaking from the slowly-melting frost. He rolled onto his side, away from the broom poking into his side.

His head spun, and he kept his eyes shut, but he knew he wasn't alone. In a moment, he heard a familiar voice.

"Harry, are you alright?" Draco asked, and warm hands began shaking Harry. "Come on, we won the game. Are you okay?"

Harry grunted and sat up, his ribs aching and his arm feeling absolutely splintered. "Fine," he gritted. "Something's wrong with my arm." He looked over at Draco, who was now propping him up.

"Oh, gods, yes there is," Draco said, the blood draining from his face. "But, you'll be fine. Look! Lockhart's coming. He'll save you."

Despite how relieved Draco sounded, Harry was not _quite_  as comforted.

"Don't let him near me," he hissed. "Hex him before he touches me."

Either Draco was deaf or Harry had lost the ability to use English, because Draco did nothing as Lockhart strutted over, pushing through the gathering crowd.

"Clear out, clear out! I need some space!" the haughty professor crowed. "I'm not a Healer, but I have experience. I have helped many injured orphans before! Trust me, this isn't my first time."

Harry grimaced at the distasteful comment. "I'm fine, really, Professor. I'll wait for Madam Pomfrey."

"Nonsense, Harry!" Lockhart exclaimed as Draco scooted away from Harry. "I'm just as good, if not better! Trust me."

"No," Harry groaned.

"You'll be fine," Draco assured him.

He was very, very wrong.

* * *

Draco watched in anticipation, clinging as closely as he could while still giving space, while his Defense professor tended to his best friend.

Harry's arm was already bright purple from the break in his arm, and he seemed delirious from the pain. He had told Draco to hex Lockhart! He must have been suffering.

But Draco knew that Lockhart could be trusted. He was going to save Harry's arm.

He raised his wand and pointed it at Harry's arm. There was a fizzle of blue light, and a strange deflating sound. Then, Harry's arm suddenly went limp.

"What did you do?" Harry screeched, trying to sit up. His arm was unable to support him.

Draco was by his side immediately, propping him up again. "Was that supposed to happen, Professor?" he asked hesitantly. He reached out to touch Harry's arm, and then gagged as he realized it was completely limp.

Harry had no bones in his arm.

Gods, what had Lockhart  _done?_

The Defense Professor looked more perplexed than concerned. "I'm afraid not. Is my wand malfunctioning?" he wondered aloud, letting out a small grunt of confusion.

Harry let out a long groan, and Draco wrapped another arm around him to make sure he didn't fall onto the ground.

"All due respect, Professor," said Draco, "that's not the issue here. Harry needs help!"

"Well, I could try again--"

"No!" Harry shouted in protest, and the sheer volume of it made Draco's ears ring.

"Just get Madam Pomfrey," Draco urged.

The nurse was already being brought over, however. She got on the ground and shooed Draco away, taking a relieved Harry's arm and inspecting it with concern.

"What happened here?" she asked.

"Lockhart," Harry growled. "It was just a natural break before."

"He was trying to help," Draco added hesitantly, though the words were empty. He noticed in frustration that Lockhart hadn't even apologized, and nor did he seem to care about what he had just done.

"I'm taking you to the infirmary, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey murmured.

And before Draco could protest, Harry was being brought away. A group of cheering Slytherins escorted, but Draco didn't follow. He stayed on the ground, his legs half-crossed, staring at the grass.

As people began to disperse, he felt a hand clap on his shoulder.

"Potter will be fine," Flint assured him. "It was a good game. You did well, for a new player."

Draco looked up, his head feeling strangely heavy. "Thanks," he said weakly.

"You okay?" Flint asked hesitantly.

"Fine."

Flint shrugged and walked away, leaving Draco to his thoughts. He watched as Lockhart flippantly chatted with one of the professors and a group of twittering girls. He didn't seem to care that he had just severely damaged Harry's arm.

Draco had never heard of that happening before. He felt sick with fear, wondering what Harry would do without a proper arm if Madam Pomfrey couldn't heal it. 

He got to his feet, deciding to confront Lockhart.

He stormed over to the group, his head filled with thoughts of Harry.

Lockhart paid him no heed when he grabbed his arm and shook it. He just shrugged it off and continued-- _gods, is that what he's really doing?--_ flirting with the group.

Angry, now, he shoved past one of the girls to stand directly in front of Lockhart.

"Can we speak, Professor?" Draco demanded, crossing his arms.

A shadow of annoyance passed over the professor's flawless face. "Excuse me, ladies," he said, narrowing his eyes at Draco.

The group disappeared, and Draco found himself staring up at Lockhart. If this were any other occasion, he might have swooned at the chance to  _finally_ have the dreamy hero's full attention.

But now, Draco was angry. It didn't matter who the person was--if someone messed with a Malfoy's loved one, they were going to pay.

 _Fraternity,_ his mother's voice supplied,  _not filial protection._

But this wasn't just the typical Slytherin closeness. Harry was practically family.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" Lockhart asked pleasantly, for the first time seeming to actually remember Draco's name.

"Aren't you going to apologize?" Draco demanded. 

"Me? Apologize?" Lockhart sounded scandalized. "Wasn't it you who interrupted my conversation?"

"You hurt Harry," Draco snapped, cutting to the point.

"Oh, come now, blond one," Lockhart cooed, placing a soft hand on Draco's shoulder. "I would never hurt your friend. Mr. Potter and I are very close."

Draco felt his face go red, and he jerked away from the touch. "Apologize," he growled.

"Stubborn," Lockhart laughed. "Fine. I'm sorry."

"Good."

"Look, is that all you wanted?"

"That's enough," Draco said stiffly. 

"Let me know how Mr. Potter is doing, alright?" Lockhart asked cheekily as he walked away, back to where his harem was waiting.

An unpleasant anger was hammering in Draco's head. He didn't think he liked Lockhart much anymore.

And there was Harry to attend to. He was probably already in the Hospital Wing. Draco forgot about his broom and the game and Lockhart and hurried off, back to the castle.

He didn't even notice the red haired first year calling his name.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the bright side, Draco might be figuring out that Lockhart isn't all what he's made out to be.
> 
> And, uh, In Like A Lion update should be within a week. SOrry guys. Haven't really been feeling the stories lately. Just been posting old drafts...


	16. Draco Malfoy and The Worst Evening Ever (Seriously Why Can Nothing Go Well Anymore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody Hates Lockhart

After a night of drinking bottles of Skelegro and wishing he could have some strong pain-killing potions, Harry was more than happy to be let to sleep through the next day.

He was visited by his friends, though Draco was (obviously) the one who spent the most time with him. Honestly, Harry didn't know what he would do without him.

Or any of his friends, really. He was reminded of that while he was there more than anything, because Hermione was unconscious a few beds over. They still hadn't found a way to cure her. 

Harry thought that, once she woke up, he would forgive her for everything. He hoped she had changed her mind on him being Dark. He wanted his friend back.

He spent most of that morning watching Hermione, feeling sad, wishing things had gone differently.

 

Madam Pomfrey let him out that evening before dinner. He felt well rested, having slept until the afternoon and played chess with Draco until she let him go.

"Don't come back anytime soon, Mr. Potter!" she called after him as he left.

"With your luck, it won't be long," Draco jested with a smirk.

"Blame my lucky scar," Harry laughed.

It felt good to be out of the Hospital Wing, even if it had hardly been twenty-four hours. His legs felt stiff from being in bed all day. The only thing he didn't miss was all the attention from being surrounded by people. He wasn't looking forward to eating in the Great Hall right away.

"Here," Draco said, noticing his discomfort. "We can go to the dungeons and have Blaise and Theo bring us back some food."

"Or you could do it," Harry suggested, smirking at the now-old argument.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine. I can go get it. Wait here, Potter," he said with faked vehemence.

Harry watched with amusement as his friend darted away into the Great Hall.

* * *

It was still early, so the tables were mostly empty. He didn't really pay much attention, besides the fact that there were less people to notice him running out with armfuls of food.

But, the problem with being in an emptier room is that it's much harder to go unnoticed. And there was one person who had been trying to get his attention for some time now.

"Malfoy!" 

He ignored it. He wasn't in the mood to deal with people; he was tending to Harry. 

Before he could reach the Slytherin table, though, someone had grabbed onto the sleeve of his robe, and he was jerked back. He angrily spun to face them, and found none other than the Weasley girl.

"Malfoy," she said, looking aggravated. "You've been ignoring me."

He snapped his arm so his sleeve was free of her grip. "It's hard to ignore someone I never see," he retorted. He couldn't remember seeing her since--well, since Flourish and Blotts. To be honest, he had mostly forgotten the encounter.

She crossed her arms and her lips pressed into a pout. "Whatever," she mumbled. "Listen, you gave me those books. For Defense class."

"Er, yes, I did," Draco answered, tempted to just walk away. 

"Well, thank you," she said.

"What?" He wasn't sure he heard that right.

"Thank you," the Weasley girl repeated, half-smiling.

"Erm, okay. You're welcome?" he said with a shrug. He pushed past her, back towards the Slytherin table. He still had to collect food for Harry.

"Hey!" she cried.

"What?" he demanded, not bothering to stop walking. He heard the patter of footsteps as she hurried after him.

"Is Harry alright?" she asked, walking alongside him.

"Why do you care?" 

"Er, I--he's my brothers' friend." She sounded flustered, and her cheeks had gone bright pink. 

"No, he's not," Draco snapped, stopping abruptly at the table and snapping his head to glare at her. "I don't know what you're doing, but if you're spying for Ronald or something,  _get away."_

Her eyes widened as she froze. "I meant Fred and George."

"Oh." 

They were silent, so Draco busied himself with grabbing several of the green apples from the table, as he couldn't imagine carrying out anything else there. The girl just watched him, and he paid her no heed as he hurried to exit the Great Hall, thoroughly perplexed by the interaction.

He was finally back out in the hall, when he felt a sharp stinging hit him in the back. He dropped all of his apples in shock, letting out a cry. He spun, expecting it to be the girl.

"Weasley!" he screeched.

Except it was the wrong Weasley.

"Why were you bothering my sister?" Ronald Weasley demanded, his wand raised. 

"She was bothering _me!_ " Draco retorted, drawing his own wand. A few hexes his father taught him over the summer immediately came to mind.

"Stay away from her! You and Potter both!" Weasley shouted. "I don't want any filthy snakes near her!"

"Then you tell her to leave us well alone," Draco growled, taking a step forward. "And we're not  _filthy snakes."_

Weasley laughed bitterly. "Oh, and I guess you'll try and tell me that Potter isn't the Heir of Slytherin, either?" he asked. 

"He's not," Draco answered, ready to fire a curse at any moment.

"I don't believe it," Weasley answered, his voice surprisingly steady. "There's not a single wizard that's gone into Slytherin that didn't go bad. Not even Harry Potter, even if he did kill Voldemort. You're all just Death Eater  _scum."_

That struck a nerve. 

 _"Flipendo!"_ he exclaimed, and Weasley flew backward, slamming into the wall.

It took him a second to regain himself. "Nothing Darker?" he asked shakily.

"What were you expecting?" Draco demanded. He had never learned anything Dark; his family couldn't use Dark magic anymore, of course.

Weasley answered by sending an equally not-Dark jinx, the jelly legs jinx. Left wobbling, Draco tried to steady himself so he could counter the attack.

" _Finite Incantum!_ " a voice from behind him called. 

Draco felt his legs return to normal, and Harry had come to save the day.

"Thick as thieves, you two," Weasley grumbled, beginning to look nervous. "This is hardly fair! Two against one. Slytherin cheaters."

"Shut up!" Draco shouted.

"Or what? Your boyfriend here will petrify me like he did to Hermione?" Weasley sneered.

Harry picked up an apple and threw it at Weasley, but it just smashed into the wall. "That wasn't me!"

"Liar!" Weasley cried, looking close to the edge now. "I talked to her, you know! She said you were terrible. I wouldn't put it past you! Either of you! You're going to try and kill all of us, aren't you?"

Draco had enough. " _Slugulus Eructo_!" he screeched. It hit Weasley square in the chest, and he doubled over.

"What was that?" Harry asked, stepping backwards.

"Just watch," Draco said with a smirk.

He didn't have the satisfaction, though, because Professor McGonagall had decided to show up.

"Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Potter! What are you doing here with Mr. Weasley?" she demanded, storming over to them.

That was the moment when at least a dozen slugs came practically  _bubbling_ out of Weasley's mouth. 

McGonagall's face turned stony. "Detention. Both of you." 

"He provoked him!" Harry protested.

"Quiet, Mr. Potter," McGonagall snapped. "I will listen to your stories later. And Mr. Weasley, we will have a discussion about this as well."

* * *

Twenty points were deducted from Gryffindor, but thirty were taken from Slytherin. Draco and Harry weren't even allowed to spend detention together.

"Where are you headed?" Harry asked as they both walked out of the common room, an hour after dinner the next day.

"Lockhart," Draco answered, keeping his voice neutral. He wasn't quite sure how he was feeling about the Defense teacher anymore.

"Oh, your dream come true. Aren't you excited?" Harry asked drily, his lips twisted into a grimace.

"Not particularly," Draco sighed. "Who's running your detention?"

"Filch," Harry grumbled.

"I'm so sorry."

"I'd choose Filch over Lockhart any day," Harry confessed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Of course you would."

They went their separate ways a few minutes, Harry further into the dungeons and Draco up the staircase to Lockhart's office.

The autobiographical adventurer was waiting for him, his feet kicked up on the desk as he read over a letter. 

"Hello, Professor," Draco said quietly, shutting the door behind him. He wasn't sure what to expect from detention.

"Ah, blond one--I mean, Malfoy. Minnie said you would be coming," he said, putting down the letter and removing his feet from the desk."Have a seat."

"What do you want me to do?" Draco asked. He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Exasperated, more than anything. 

Lockhart looked at him curiously for a second, as if also surprised. 

Draco bit back a smirk.  _Oh, miss my fawning? You didn't pay attention to it before._ He stilled a bit as he thought of how much like Harry his thoughts sounded.

"I have some fan mail that needs to be answered," Lockhart said eventually. "Just a bit." He pulled a huge sack of letters from underneath the desk.

" _I_ have to answer them?" Draco asked, slightly incredulous. "Aren't they yours?"

"Too tedious," Lockhart answered with an air of indifference. "Perfect for detention. Just write how appreciative I am of their love and support. Read me any of the good ones."

Draco raised an eyebrow but only said, "Yes, sir." All he could do was wonder how he could have thought of Lockhart as anything but arrogant before.

"Wonderful. Here's the parchment and the envelopes and the wax seal, and just grab a few handfuls of letters to read."

Draco began reading, and was immediately sickened by what he read. Most of the letters sounded exactly like he did not one week ago, full of adoration and affection.

It was disgusting, really.

He decided that the best way to get back at Lockhart would be not to answer the letters as Lockhart himself, but as the unwilling detention-slave that Lockhart had made him into.

He made them all the same, just to add insult to injury,

 

> _Dearest fan,_
> 
> _Gilderoy Lockhart would like to give you his most generic thanks. He didn't actually read the letter, but he's grateful that you're a fan. Someone has to stroke his ego._
> 
> _Sincerest regards,_
> 
> _The student he forced to read his letters._

He managed to write responses to half of them before detention was over, and Lockhart didn't even notice that they were all the same.He was too busy preening in the mirror, and Draco had to stamp them all closed in the envelope himself anyway. With any luck, Lockhart would never see a single one of them.

Or, maybe it would be more fun if he did.

But the professor wasn't interested enough, and excused Draco five minutes early.

"Unless there were any particularly lovely letters you'd like to read to me?" Lockhart chirped as Draco was heading for the door.

"No, sir. They were all very similar to me," Draco said dryly.

"Oh, no. I know that tone," Lockhart said sadly, tutting his voice. "You've lost faith, haven't you? After reading how many other adoring fans I have, you've realized that you don't stand a chance."

Draco stiffened. "What chance?" he demanded.

"You were hopelessly in love with me, weren't you?" Lockhart laughed. "I don't blame you, you know. Most people are. Even I'm in love with me!" He flipped his hair.

Draco grimaced in disgust. "You're--you're--"

"Wonderful? Tempting? Infuriatingly gorgeous?"

"A fake," Draco corrected him. "And an egomaniac. And if you expected me to be  _in love with you..._ You're disgusting!" he cried, running out of the room and slamming the door.

He felt relieved to be out of the room, away from Lockhart. He felt embarrassed of the infatuation he had with Lockhart before; he was just ignorant then. But he had never been in love with the professor. That was repulsive. Admired him, perhaps. Aspired to be like him, perhaps. 

As he stalked back up to the Slytherin dorms, all he could think about was how he wished there had been a foul letter in the mix so he could have had the satisfaction of reading it to the conceited professor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never, not once, managed to make Ron seem in character. Even when he's not being a total jerk, or in stories where he's friends with Harry. Ron is an enigma to me.


	17. Harry Potter and the Yule Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I feel bad when a scene doesn't go exactly as it did in the book but then I remember that this is my AU and I can do what I want...
> 
> And thanks again to dinkydog for spotting my silly mistakes!

By the time December arrived, the Great Hall had a new festive air to it. There were garlands hung across the ceiling, and one could find stray holiday bulbs rolling around the floor. There were large quantities of hot apple cider and hot chocolate, and just about everyone was feeling the Yuletide Spirit.

Well, except Harry. Not only was he tired of being accused for hurting his best friend, but he didn't even celebrate Christmas. Moony and Padfoot rarely decorated or had festive traditions, and having it forced upon him at school was always annoying.

It was the last straw when he found a piece of tinsel in his treacle tart.

"Gah!" he growled. "That's disgusting. Are they letting Christmas Elves cook the food instead of house elves?" He flicked away the shiny silver string, and it landed in Draco's hair. He didn't react; he was too busy being slumped over his untouched food.

"Wow, someone's in a bad mood," said Theo.

"Both of them are," added Blaise. "Have been for the past... school year, wouldn't you say?"

Theo laughed. "They've been a bit busy, though. Things aren't going so well, wouldn't you say?"

Harry wanted to bury his face in his hands. The two had taken to narrating his moods for the past few months, and now Draco was acting off as well, so it was twice as bad.

"We're still right here, you know," he grumbled. He wasn't even going to list off all the terrible things that had already happened to him, as he had the past dozen times.

Draco just huffed and poked at the golden potatoes on his plate. A moody Draco was a dramatically moody Draco.

"Oh, really?" Blaise inquired, pointing with his fork. "Because you haven't said anything worth listening to. I was beginning to think you weren't here."

Draco sighed again and nibbled at a bit of broccoli. He was beginning to worry Harry.

"At least I know when to keep my mouth shut," grumbled Harry.

Blaise was silent after that, unable to come up with a clever response.

Theo cleared his throat. "I bet I know what would cheer you lot up. I heard that there's going to be the first Dueling Club meeting tonight. Wouldn't you want to go to that?"

Draco sat up, visibly interested, but didn't say anything. Harry assumed it would spoil the dramatic effect of his mood.

"I didn't even know we had a dueling club," Harry said, his interest piqued. He could imagine how that would be useful, especially since he definitely wasn't learning anything in Defense class.

And, maybe he could learn some moves for next time Ronald Weasley decided to corner Draco.

"I don't think we did," Blaise answered, looking thoughtful. "But I heard Lockhart and Snape decided to put it together. Exciting, eh, Draco?"

Draco let out another loud moan and his head fell to the table again.

"What's up with him?" Blaise inquired. "Draco, I thought they were your favorites."

Harry lowered his voice and said, "I think his detention went badly." He couldn't hide his smirk. He was pleased, despite Draco's miserable mood that had lasted (on and off) for the past two weeks.

"No, it was fine," Draco mumbled, his face still pressed into the wood of the table, garbling the words. "I'm just tired, okay?"

"It can speak!" Blaise gasped, reeling back.

"Is it coming to the Dueling Club tonight?" Theo asked.

"Fine," Draco replied, sitting up. "If Harry's going."

"Of course," Harry answered. Even if he hated Lockhart, and Snape still terrified him half the time, he wanted to see why on earth the two would co-start a club.

More than anything, though, he wanted to see Snape duel Lockhart. That would be fun to watch.

"Good evening, my young inklings," Lockhart purred. He was standing on a conjured stage, practically preening in the light of the attention. "And _welcome_ to the first Duel meet!" He sounded absolutely excited, and raised his hands in the air as if awaiting applause.

Snape, standing just behind him, pulled a face. "Inklings?" he whispered scathingly, his voice barely audible.

Lockhart ignored him, and threw his hands back, which knocked Snape back a few paces. He looked absolutely murderous.

"Today's meeting, I will be teaching you duel etiquette. You can't win if you don't know the rules!" Lockhart let out a laugh suspiciously close to a giggle, but the group remained silent.

Snape took two long strides forward. " _We_ will be showing you duel etiquette, as dueling is a two-part endeavor."

Harry stopped listening as the two began bickering/lecturing at the same time, and took some time to look in the crowd to see who was there. He estimated that there were about fifty, and he recognized several classmates.

He was slightly surprised to spot Parkinson, standing by the edge with a wicked grin on her face. He hadn't thought her to be the Defense type.

Then again, why would she miss the chance to hurt someone?

He noticed Ron Weasley there, too. Neville was standing a few feet away with the other two Gryffindor boys. He looked very uncomfortable.

"Look! It's Neville," whispered Blaise. He immediately began slipping through the crowd to go bother his unexpected friend.

Harry turned his attention back to the stage, where Lockhart and Snape were now facing each other off, wands raised.

Snape immediately fired a stinging hex at Lockhart right where it hurt, who immediately yelped and jumped back.

Harry snickered, and was surprised to see Draco smirking as well.

"Snape just nailed him," he whispered.

Draco nodded. "I know. Snape's brilliant." His smile widened even further while Lockhart attempted to throw his own curse, but only managed to turn Snape's eyebrows purple.

The potion master's facial expression shifted minutely into a picture of pure rage. The room seemed to go colder, and suddenly it was silent. Not even Blaise was talking.

"Professor Lockhart, I understand this is a demonstration, but surely our favorite Defense teacher could prove more adept at _defensive_ spells." He raised his wand, and with a swish, a white bolt shot at Lockhart's head. "If you're going to go for aesthetically altering spells, at least have it be something that will actually incapacitate your opponent."

Lockhart's eyes widened, and then his hair turned bright white. Frantically, he began scratching at it.

"It itches!" he screeched.

The majority room burst into a fit of half-stifled laughter, while the remainder (Lockhart's fans) gasped at the scandal.

Harry's opinion of Snape rose a few notches. Anyone who went straight for Lockhart's hair was a decent human.

Lockhart scratched at his hair frantically for another minute, and then tried standing straight in an attempt to restore his dignity.

"I think that's enough," he coughed, avoiding looking at Snape. "Why don't we let you little cherubs have a go? Wouldn't that be fun?" His voice was slightly shaky now.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Separate into pairs."

Without further instruction, the room quickly dissolved into chaos as friends began to seek each other out.

"Want to go?" Harry asked Draco, feeling more excited than he had in a long time.

Draco wasn't looking at him. He was glaring at the edge of the group.

"Actually, I would rather do this with Parkinson," he said, his voice gone low.

Harry raised his eyebrows, a little surprised. "Alright," he said, only slightly concerned for his friends' wellbeing. "But who am I supposed to do this with, then?"

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched as he glanced over ever-so-slightly. "I'm sure Weasley is eager to jab his wand at you again."

"You think I should duel him?" Harry questioned. He wasn't nervous, of course, even though his mouth had gone dry. He had no reason to be afraid of Ron. He just didn't want to have to deal with the reactions if he accidentally did something to harm a Gryffindor. Anything else "dark" put on his slate would be detrimental.

"Scared, Potter?" Draco teased, elbowing him in the ribs.

Harry jumped away and drew his wand. "No," he growled. "Don't let Parkinson beat you too badly. I don't want to have to repair your ego after that."

Draco just snorted. "I will have no trouble."

And then they drifted away. Harry marched right up to Weasley, who seemed to be waiting for him with his arms crossed.

"Ready to duel without your other half to help you?" Ronald demanded with a twitch of his lip. He was characteristically bold, like a Gryffindor, but Harry was beginning to think the animosity that he spat at him was rather _un_ characteristic. Or, at least, he thought so, based off of the amicable attitudes of the other Weasleys he'd met.

"Come on, then. Wand out," Harry said bluntly, noticing that Weasley had kept his wand stuck up his sleeve.

"Alright." He drew it, and Harry noticed that it was strangely frayed at the end. It looked broken, actually. He hadn't had the chance to tell when he was defending Draco from it earlier.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked cautiously, already taking a few steps back as they stood in proper position. Spells were already flying around them, and the room was growing louder with the shouting, whizzing, and banging.

"None of your business," Weasley spat. "It works fine."

Harry shrugged. "Alright, then. Let's go."

Ronald took the first move, aiming a Jelly-Legs Jinx that simply ended up redirecting itself mid air, and hitting an unsuspecting Hufflepuff to the right. This surprised Harry, and he hesitated before returning with a simple stinging hex. After watching the pathetic attempt, he was less filled with animosity or eagerness to duel than some confusion and pity.

This irked Ron more than anything, and he tried shooting out a spell that Harry didn't recognize, but it just ended up bursting in his face, causing him to break out in boils. It was sad, really.

"Are you sure you want to keep going?" Harry asked hesitantly. He may not have liked the boy, but it was an unfair situation indeed. He wasn't getting any satisfaction from dueling a disadvantaged opponent. He wondered if the wand conundrum was anything new.

"I'm fine!" Ronald shouted, looking flustered and frazzled. "You aren't supposed to be nice about it!"

Harry frowned, but gave in and decided to end the duel. "Expelliarmus," he said carefully, remembering the spell that Moony had taught him over the summer. It sent Ron's malfunctioning wand from his hand in a spatter of green sparks, clattering onto the floor behind Blaise, who was in the middle of sending yet another tickling charm at Neville.

"Alright," said Harry indifferently. "I win."

Ron scowled at him and picked up his wand. He mumbled something about it acting up again, but it was lost in the sound of a loud bang amidst the already distracting chaos.

Harry looked over to see one of the Gryffindor second years (Finnigan, he thought) sporting a face covered in soot. The air was beginning to grow smokey, and the bedlam was far from settled. People were still shooting spells at each other.

Harry looked around the room. He spotted Neville rolling on the floor and cackling; Theo struggling to stand on his out-of-control legs, while his opponent (Terry Boot) was frantically trying to scratch at the purple film that covered him; and Draco, who appeared to be literally smoking as he fended off a very scary-looking Parkinson.

There was only a second more of everything until Professor Snape's voice rose above it all.

"Enough!" he boomed. "I see it was unwise to trust you all to succeed and cooperate with such minimal instruction." His eyes fell on the students as everything had stilled, his eyes falling on the particularly damaged ones. "Perhaps it will do to teach you a defensive spell."

"Oh, yes, a defensive spell!" Lockhart cried, clinging close behind Snape and appearing to be using him as a shield. His head barely poked out behind the other looming man as he whispered, "Which one, Snappy?"

Snape ignored him almost completely, simply stepping to the side so the other man yelped and had to find shelter somewhere else from the obviously ravenous horde of students.

"A simple shielding charm should suffice," the potions master continued. "Professor Lockhart. Aim a simple spell at me."

Lockhart straightened and tried to compose himself. Harry thought he looked a bit frantic. It was rather amusing, with how inept he was.

"Ah, yes. A spell. Erm, let me think. Ah--"

Snape rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "Should your opponent _actually_ manage to send a spell your way, _Protego_ will serve as a shield." He cast the spell, and a dark red forcefield began to shimmer around him.

Lockhart let out a strangled cry of success and managed to send a green beam of light at Snape, which was simply absorbed by the shield.

"As you can see," Snape said with a smirk, "it is rather effective."

Lockhart nodded earnestly, not at all embarrassed by his terrible attempts at everything. "Any of you little sprouts willing to demonstrate for us?" he inquired cheerily, having brushed off the past few events of the evening.

Before anyone could volunteer, Snape seemed to have made a decision.

"Mr. Malfoy," he said curtly. "You and your dueling partner. Here. Now."

Harry immediately spun to watch his friend, who looked mildly startled and a little worn. Neither his robes nor his form seemed to have been damaged by whatever had caused him to smoke earlier, but it was evident Parkinson wasn't playing very nicely.

Parkinson was only in a mildly better state. Her hair was out of place and her cheeks bright red from exertion, but there was a determined light in her eyes that said she was ready for a second round.

She looked like a girl with something to prove.

"Yes, sir," Draco said, and dutifully sauntered up to the stage. He looked confident, causal. As if he dueled his school enemies all the time (which, Harry admitted, was beginning to happen more often).

Parkinson followed, and Lockhart and Snape cleared so they had plenty of room to duel.

Parkinson went first, sending a stunning spell straight at Draco. His first move was to duck away from it, and he did not use the spell that Snape had so graciously taught them just then. He returned with an incantation that Harry hadn't heard before, sending an orange flash at Parkinson. She blocked it with the Shielding Charm, and returned with a scathingly yellow bolt of light.

It struck Draco, really just grazing his shoulder, but it made him wince. He tried to send the classic Jelly-Legs jinx her way, but it missed by a long shot, striking the wall.

It was at that moment when Parkinson smirked, and she chose to strike. Raising her wand, she cried, " _Serpensortia!"_

With that, a huge, black snake coiled onto the ground. It had burning yellow eyes and a thick, long body. It rose its angled head into the air, flicked its tongue, and several students screeched.

As it fixed its eyes on Draco, who seemed to be frozen in fear, Snape drew his wand and looked prepared to jump to remove the snake. Harry, panicked, hoped that he would get to it before something happened.

But, honestly, who was he kidding? Something always happened. And (as it happened) it was Lockhart that happened.

He jumped in front of Snape to save the day. " _Alarte Ascendare_!" he exclaimed, pointing his wand at the snake. Something must have been wrong with his magic, though (and what else was new?), because the snake only managed to hover three feet before it was flung off the stage.

And it was flung right in the direction of Harry.

Of course, it would have been easier if the snake targeted Harry. Then, he couldn't have been blamed. But things could not be so simple, as it was, and the snake changed its course to slither towards Ronald Weasley, who was already cowering in fear.

As the snake rose to strike, Harry only saw one option. The world grew silent around him as all he focused on was the snake. He knew it would be a risk, speaking to the snake in public, but he couldn't stand by and let anyone get bitten by a snake.

 _"Stay still_ ," he hissed at it, and the snake froze, snapping its head to stare at Harry.

He wasn't sure if it would even listen, considering it was a conjured snake instead of a real one. But apparently it did. If he had been able to hear anything besides the blood rushing in his ears, he would have noticed the other people in the room had also gone still.

They were, of course, panicked to hear the Parseltongue being spoken. Rightfully so, really, considering it hadn't been confirmed beyond the Prophet article that Harry really could speak to snakes.

But now the kneazle was out of the sack, and there was nothing to do but own up to it.

"Don't hurt anyone," Harry said to the snake.

He didn't get a chance to see what the snake's reaction was, because it was at that moment when Snape managed to swoop in and Vanish the snake away.

The sound returned to Harry's ears, though he could still hear the thumping of his heart over the nervous whispering of the crowd. He looked up at the stage, where Draco was staring at him slack-jawed, and Parkinson was glaring at him. She was still smirking, though, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if she had wanted him to out himself as a snake-speaker to the entire school.

"That will be enough for one night," Snape called, looking pale and possibly even frightened. "You are all free to go."

There was a murmuring from the collection of students, and then the rustle of movement. Harry stayed frozen in place, feeling slightly dazed. He could hear snippets of words from the astonished students around him.

"Parselmouth."

"He's the heir, isn't he?"

"I can't believe he didn't turn it on anyone."

"Did he really do what I think he did?"

"That's Dark. Really Dark."

"The last Parselmouth was You-Know-Who."

"What does that say about Harry?"

He just bit his lip and let it pass, willing himself not to cry. He did what he had to do, and as he clenched his eyes shut and tried to breathe, he reminded himself of that.

A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He immediately snapped to attention, thinking it was Draco, but was surprised to see a boy his age in Hufflepuff robes staring at him with wide, brown eyes.

"You're Harry Potter," the boy said slowly.

Harry shrugged away from his touch. "I am," he said warily.

"They say you defeated You-Know-Who," the boy whispered. "I'm a muggleborn, so I wouldn't know much... But you're not supposed to speak to snakes, are you?"

"I don't think so," Harry answered quietly, wondering why this boy was talking to him.

"I'm Justin Finch-Fletchy," the boy added hastily. "And I don't think you're as bad as everyone says. You just saved that Gryffindor, after all. And I saw you in Defense last year. You're not bad."

"Thank you?" Harry said, tilting his head.

"Yeah." The boy let out a small laugh and shrugged.

Harry looked past Justin to see a group of Hufflepuffs watching with irritated faces, their arms crossed.

The tallest boy in the bunch cleared his throat. "Come on, Justin." He didn't add anything such as, "That Potter's a menace."

Justin frowned. "I guess I've got to go."

"See you." Harry turned around dismissively, not for the first time perplexed by the amount of attention he received. He spotted Draco, Blaise, and Theo all waiting for him by the door. They all looked a little antsy, and a bit worse for wear after the dueling.

"What was that all about?" Draco asked once Harry joined them.

"I've no idea," he murmured in response. "But I don't like it."

"Yeah," Theo agreed, leading the way out of the door. "We were trying to keep the whole snake thing under wraps, weren't we? Now everyone knows."

Blaise laughed wryly. "Can't wait to read about it in the papers."

Harry groaned. "Just what I needed. And right before vacation, too."

"Christmas really isn't your time of year, is it?" Theo mused, flashing a smirk over his shoulder.

"Glad you think it's funny," grumbled Draco, "but we'll all have to deal with this. If Harry's hurt, we are too."

Blaise grimaced. "Harry, would you mind if I avoided you a bit?" He sounded teasing, but Harry couldn't help but wince.

"I wouldn't blame you," he said simply.

"I bet your mum will avoid him, don't you think, Draco?" Theo inquired sourly.

"My mother? Why?" Draco demanded, looking offended. "She loves Harry."

"Well, she's got that big party coming up," Blaise pointed out, "and my mum says it's very much about good image. Dark Harry won't make for a good image."

"I'm not Dark," Harry spat defensively. He shot a death glare at Blaise for good measure.

"Watch it!" Draco intervened, gripping Harry's elbow. "And mum did mention a party. Said I couldn't come. I think I'm staying at your house, Harry."

"Good to know I've been informed of all this." Harry didn't remember a single person mentioning this. Not even his parents, who had been making plans for him to stay at home over the holiday.

"It'll all pan out alright," Draco promised him. "Let's just focus on these last few days of school."

Harry sighed. That would be ideal. He was lucky all the drama happened right before break so he could get away from it sooner.

And then he would be home with Padfoot and Moony at Godric's Hollow, and everything would be okay again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for today's character notes! Let's talk about Lockhart.  
> I headcanon that Lockhart has terrible nicknames for literally everything and everyone, and he only gets away with it because he's famous.  
> Additionally, at first I thought it was ironic that being a Ravenclaw, he was just so bad at magic. This was until I started thinking about it, though. Intelligence doens't necessarily guarantee skill, and Lockhart definitely invests his wit more into his charades and his charm and impressing people rather than actual intellectual pursuits. After all, he has to be pretty clever to manage to spit out all those elaborate stories about his life (and not to spoil anything, but to get away with stealing those stories). So, while he seems pretty dimwitted at times, it's not that he's stupid (though his idiocy can certainly be argued), but rather that he invests most of his wit in social pursuits versus academic. This makes him seem rather nonthreatening at times, especially to Harry, but we musn't forget that even though Lockhart seems like a joke, he can be dangerous. Especially when he's desperate, and he usually will only get desperate over his image. (
> 
> (And Snape is definitely a better defense teacher than Lockhart....*cough*)


	18. Lucius Malfoy and the Christmas Blunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's a golden excerpt from the chapter outline I wrote at 2am last month: 
> 
> "and lucius gets hella tipsy and tries to smuggle in remus and sirius even though THEY’RE BABYSITTING HIS CHILD"
> 
> Yeah.... yeah.

Lucius spent the morning avoiding his wife. She was tense with nervous energy, anticipating the night's party. 

He instead enjoyed the company of his son, who arrived home a handful of days ago. He seemed more pensive than usual, but he was clearly happy to be home, and Lucius was happy to see him.

He was not happy, however, with the news that Draco had brought home with him. It seemed that there were whispers of Dark traveling through the school, and fingers were being pointed at Harry Potter. Now that the boy had accidentally confirmed his Parseltongue ability to the school, things were not going so well.

The issue of the opening of the Chamber of Secrets was something else altogether. Though he didn't want to admit it, Lucius was looking forward to the drinks he would be able to drink at the party. Though they might lower his inhibitions, they would help ease some of the tension that was pounding in his skull from all the worry.

His thoughts drifted often towards pondering what all of this meant for him. If Harry was considered a Dark wizard (which he most certainly was not), people would be ignorant enough to immediately jump to the conclusion that Lucius was connected.

He supposed it was wise of Narcissa, then, to forbid Remus and Sirius from attending the party. Public affiliation with them would not be a good idea. It was easier to ignore childhood friendships than it was to overlook adult alliances.

But that was not what he wanted to think about. He was getting to spend time with Draco, and that was what mattered. He had a few hours with him while Narcissa and the elves prepared the house, and then Draco would be sent off the spend the next day at Harry's house. It was Lucius' compromise with Narcissa to keep Sirius and Remus included.

He had no idea when he became so sentimental about friends. He promised himself he was just maintaining alliances.

Draco was showing him all his drawings in the time before he left to see Harry. They had talked as much as they could bear about the more serious topics (such as the Heir of Slytherin), and Lucius was trying to be more "fun." He thought that looking at doodles with his son wouldn't be nearly as disastrous as the incident at the zoo had been.

"What is that?" he inquired, pointing at a drawing sticking out from the pile. It was in pencil, as most of the others were, and he could see what seemed to be a hairy mass. He couldn't see the entire picture, though.

Draco's cheeks flushed pink as he pulled it out to look without showing it to Lucius. "It's Harry," he admitted with a bit of a smile. "We were in the common room. There was nothing else to draw."

Lucius smiled, though he was slightly confused by the choice of subject. "Do you draw your friends often?" he inquired.

"When there aren't any mermaids or squids," Draco replied cheekily.

"May I see it, then?"

Shrugging, Draco handed him the picture. It was done in a similar fashion to all his other drawings. Harry's hair, which seemed to be the focus of the sketch, appeared to be a complete rat's nest. It was nothing Lucius had never seen; he was used to the unkempt hair of the Lupin/Black/Potter household. He liked to consider his own family much more well-groomed.

"I hope your reluctance to use gel doesn't stem from mimicking Harry," he teased, not really meaning it. Because, personally, he felt that the Malfoy hair was much too fine to need the gel that Narcissa insisted upon. She just didn't understand; as fair as her hair was, it was still similar to the famed unruly Black locks.

"I like Harry's hair," Draco said innocently. Then, he pulled out another one of his drawings. "This one is of the mermaid I saw last month. It was trying to wave at us."

Lucius picked it up and smiled. He and his friends had never been the type to waste time staring out the glum common room window, but he supposed he remembered the window seat there being comfortable enough. And he remembered the mermaids  _could_ be rather entertaining.

"There used to be a sign language we used with them," he said absently, staring at the picture. "I never bothered learning, but some of the prefects knew it. After enough of them smashed into the window, I suppose we  _had_ to communicate with them."

"Really?" Draco inquired, his eyes going bright. "Do you think I could learn it somehow?"

"I'm sure there's something in the library," he replied, not at all surprised that his son would be taking such interest. "Perhaps even the librarian would know. Pince, you say? I think she might have been in Slytherin."

"Not Ravenclaw?" Draco asked curiously.

"Come now. You of all people should know that Slytherins can be just as intelligent."

"But not  _bookish,"_ snickered Draco.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Lucius replied with a raised eyebrow. "Wouldn't you say your mother and I are rather bookish?"

Draco's cheeks flushed pink. "Sorry, Father."

"No worries. But you might want to ask one of the elves to help you gather your things; Harry and his fathers will be expecting you over soon."

"Oh, yeah!" Draco cried, his face lightening up. He scrambled to pull together his drawings and ran out of Lucius' study, presumably back to his room.

"Don't forget to tidy before you go! There will be guests over tonight!" Lucius called after him, though he knew one of the elves had most likely already tended to the matter.

He sighed once he could no longer hear the patter of his son's running through the hallway. He was certain that his evening would not be as enjoyable as his morning had been.

* * *

Lucius wasn't sure when he had last seen so many people in his house. He must have only been a boy then.

The last gathering he had held in the Manor was for the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, and Lucius was trying his best not to think about it. That part of his life was behind him, and he knew he mustn't allow it to get to him. 

The only problem was that several former Death Eaters had been invited. He was beginning to think that Narcissa hadn't thought her plan through very well. 

"Darling, why did you invite the Parkinsons?" he hissed, pulling her aside as more and more guests began to stream through the door. "You know what happened last time I had an encounter with him."

"I told you," Narcissa whispered, leaning in to elbow him gently in the side. "I wanted to check in on Ianthe, and she wasn't going to go without . I've been worried about her since he came back, you know. She used to spend time with us--"

"Ianthe? Theseus? We're using their first names now?" Lucius hissed. "They're only going to get us into more trouble than we already are, Narcissa. I thought this was a charity gala! Not a meet up for all the Death Eaters not in Azkaban!"

He looked around and already saw too many familiar faces (though not many). Yaxley and Crabbe were the only others, and they were just reminders of his own "betrayal." Part of him wished he had never done it, and part of him wished that he had managed to help put the rest of them in Azkaban, too.

"Lower your voice," Narcissa ordered, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Have you been drinking already? You sound ridiculous."

He felt the burn in his chest from the firewhiskey he'd already begun to drink and simply scowled at her.

"That's irrelevant, Narcissa," he retorted. "It doesn't change the fact that  _Theseus_ Parkinson is a threat. This is a terrible idea."

"Then you are free to sit down and not interfere," Naricissa spat back. "Because, as I recall, a majority of the conflicts we encounter are your own fault. Just stay quiet, and stay out of it."

Lucius winced as Narcissa stalked away. Several of their guests (many of whom he recognized instantly from the Ministry) were gaping at him, and he felt humiliated. He wished that he could drift off to a corner and remain there, but as the man of the house, he was obligated to interact with his guests.

 _Then again,_ he thought,  _I can also do whatever I want._

He decided he'd find a nice, secluded corner to drink his firewhiskey in until the evening was over. Hopefully, no one would bother him.

Of course, it was delusional that he would ever even think that, because  _of course_ people would want to bother him when they were invited into his home. There was no escaping it, and he was forced to have polite conversation with people from work.

Wasn't he supposed to keep work away from the home? Clearly, that wasn't what was happening, and he had to bite his tongue as he listened to muggle-loving co-workers blaspheme in his own house. He played a drinking game with himself.

For every pleasantry and annoyance, he took a drink.

"Oh, it's so  _lovely_ that you and your wife are putting on this event!"

 _Swig._ "She is my better half."  _Smile innocently._

"You really have come a long way, Malfoy. Pretty soon you'll be helping me sign off on that muggle born equality bill, won't you, friend?"

 _Swig._ "We'll see what happens when I get to that position."  _Hide grimace behind another swig._

"I  _do_ hope you buy free-trade ingredients. I've heard they put hippogriff meat in the conventional ones!"

 _Swig._ "Only the best from the Malfoy family."  _Ignore pointed glance._

"I hear that your son is growing up to  _quite_ the handsome young man. Have you met my daughter?"

 _Swig._ "It's a bit early for that, don't you think?"  _Attempt to raise eyebrow._

And so it went on and on for several hours. By the time he had reached the point of the evening where there was talk of  _wedding arrangements,_ however,he was absolutely tired of it.

 _People_ , he thought,  _are awful._ Honestly, he mustn't have been the only drunk one if Heathrow Blishwick thought his Hufflepuff daughter would be worthy for Draco. Lucius had almost raised his wand at him, but his inhibitions were still enough in tact that that he managed to restrain himself.

To be truthful, he couldn't remember the last time he had done so much drinking. Of course, he had a glass or two when he was having troubles at work or with Narcissa, but he couldn't remember the last time he had felt so inebriated. His head was buzzing and he couldn't quite feel his fingers. For a moment, he wondered if there had been some neem oil or some other strange ingredient had been added to his drink.

Or, he had just had a bit much. But Lucius had too much pride to admit that.

A few minutes later, he decided it would be a good idea to find Narcissa. She would agree with him that marriage with the Blishwicks would be a bad idea (and not just because Draco could do better, but because it was a horrid political statement! Even she could agree with that). And maybe she would find him a nice, quiet place to get away from the party. 

He really hated large groups that weren't meetings. When he was talking to people at the Ministry, he felt productive. He was doing things that elevated his position that helped him. It had been the same when he was involved with the Death Eaters. It wasn't a social call, it was a cause.

He didn't mind social calls when it was with Remus and Sirius, he thought. They were his friends. He hadn't had any proper friends since school. He liked being around them. Why hadn't Narcissa invited them to the party?

It was pointless, tedious, and boring. Nothing would be achieved at a charity ball. He refused to believe that anyone of importance would be attending something so dull.

In retrospect, he would chastise himself for his stupidity. Of  _course_ important people would be at a charity ball. But he was too hammered to think straight and realize that.

He spotted Narcissa standing by one of the ice sculptures (which he hoped that he hadn't been forced to pay for, because they were hideous). She was chatting with two other women that he didn't quite recognized. He made a beeline towards her (which was more like a bumble-bee line, because he was staggering and tottering along as he went). 

"Narcissa!" he crowed as he approached. "Da-arling. I'm exhausted. Guess what just happened?"

She tore her gaze away from her companions to look at him (he didn't notice it was a glare). "Lucius," she remarked. "Are you alright? You're a bit red in the face."

"S'normal," he slurred, reaching out to put an arm around her. "Blishwick wants his daughter to marry Draco. Can you believe that?"

Narcissa let out a small gasp. "Does he? What did you say?"

"I told him to bury his head in a niffler burrow," Lucius replied with a chuckle. "Draco and a Blishwick! Disgusting, isn't it?"

Narcissa was glaring daggers at him, but he was too oblivious to notice. He continued rambling until he realized she was pulling him away into a private corner, and shoved him into a wall.

"Mmmh! Narcissa!" he exclaimed. "Eager! S'been a while."

She slapped him on the arm. "Lucius! Pull yourself together. You just embarrassed us in front of half the room. And I was talking to Ms. Nott and Ianthe!" 

"Everything's fine," he replied. "S'long as we don't get married to a Blishwick."

"Quiet, Lucius," Narcissa pleaded. "If you don't remember,  _Blishwick_ is your superior! He could get you fired! Gods, how much have you had to drink?"

He grinned and tried to suppress a hiccup. "Not much," he lied.

"You cannot do this to us," she muttered, turning her head. "I won't even give you a sobering charm. You deserve the hangover in the morning. Just leave the room so you don't humiliate us further."

"Really? I can go?" He laughed giddily, unable to suppress his feelings.

"Are you even my husband?" Narcissa shook her head in disbelief. "Let me lead you back to the bedroom."

 _My bedroom,_ thought Lucius.  _There's a Floo there. I can go get Remus and Sirius._

His grin nearly split his face. 

* * *

Dobby watched nervously from behind a curtain as his master stumbled around the room, acting very much not like himself. He was very grateful that Mistress Narcissa had managed to pull him from the party.

But now Master Lucius was trying to use the Floo in his bedroom, and the green powder was spilling all over the floor. Dobby wanted very much to clean it up, but Master had told him to leave him alone. And Dobby did not want to disturb his master when he was not acting like himself.

So, when he heard someone mulling around in the hallway, he realized he was better off serving Master if he left to investigate.

And he was very, very glad he did.

He found Mister Parkinson trying to fiddle with the lock on one of Master's secret doors. He was cursing and mumbling to himself, and Dobby did not like what he heard at all.

He already that Mister Parkinson was trouble. Dobby was friends with some of Mister Parkinson's elves, and he did not treat them well at all. Mister Parkinson was a very bad sir, and Dobby also knew that Master Lucius would not like him.

"Sir!" he squeaked. "You is not looking though Master's house. You must be going back to the party, sir!" 

Parkinson looked up with a start, and then scowled. "Go away, elf," he snarled. "This is none of your business."

"No, Mister Parkinson, sir!" Dobby protested. "You is not doing this. This is bad. Master Lucius will not be pleased, sir. You must be coming with Dobby now."

"Back off," Parkinson said warningly, raising his wand.

"No!"

There was a crack of red light, and Dobby could not see anything. He would not wake up until after the party was over, and when he did, he decided he would have to go visit his friends at the Parkinsons.

Because there was no law that said elves couldn't snoop on their master's enemies, after all.

* * *

After several minutes of snooping, Lucius managed to get the Floo to work properly. It was truly astounding that it could understand his slurred exclamation of "Godric's Hullo!" which was followed by a string of delirious giggles.

Perhaps it was because the connection between the two homes had been used often enough now that it was stronger by then.

Lucius hardly had the capacity to ponder this binding between his family and Remus and Sirius', so he simply stumbled through the fireplace into the cozy sitting room of Godric's Hollow. The transportation was so nauseating, however, that he hardly had a chance to observe the scene before him, because he was slightly busy with vomiting all over their floor.

There were three shocked gasps, a familiar cry of "Father!" and then, the sound of raucous laughter. 

 _Sirius,_ he thought. He would recognize that antagonizing cackle anywhere.

"Oh gods," Remus was saying, and there were hands on his shoulders as he was pulled to his feet.

Lucius tried not to vomit again, narrowly succeeding, and tried to straighten himself as he looked his friend in the eye. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he felt fine, really.

"Re-mus," he said slowly, grinning. "I wanted to talk to you! Narcissa's party is so  _boring."_

"Father?" the small voice of his son asked. "Are you alright? You don't look well..."

Lucius tried to turn to face his son, but ended up turning too far and banging his head into the mantle. "Ow!" he exclaimed, a little surprised. 

"Hold still," Remus urged, gripping his shoulders again. "Sirius, help me out. Hold him still while I cast the charm. Harry, take Draco to your room. I'll come get you in a few minutes." He kept his voice steady and commanding, and Lucius knew that the commands were obeyed.

Remus' hands were replaced by Sirius', and he was being propped up on the sofa while he laughed deliriously. Perhaps there was some stronger solution than neem root in his firewhiskey...

And then Remus was casting a sobriety charm, and the horrible reality of Lucius' situation and his actions of the evening hit him with a nauseating wave of regret, just as the hangover hit his skull like a hammer.

"Head clearer?" Sirius asked, one eyebrow cocked. "Godric knows Remus' had to use that on me enough times. He's good at it."

Lucius just groaned. No matter how effective it had been, it didn't change his pounding headache, or the fact that he had made a complete fool of himself in front of Narcissa's party, including several co-workers.

And then he had vomited in Godric's Hollow, and his poor son had to see it. Sirius was never going to let him live it down.

Remus used a spell to clean up Lucius' mess on the floor, and watching just made him feel sicker. 

"I think my firewhiskey was drugged," he murmured, wondering who would have done it, or how they would have pulled it off. "I haven't acted that insane since my school days."

"You probably just overindulged, mate," Sirius said, with a bit of a snicker. "I'll go see if we have any hangover potion. Don't drink so much anymore, but it's always good to have some on hand." He disappeared into the hallway, into their meager bathroom to find any potion.

Lucius thought that he very much needed that potion. The headache was pounding so much that he could hardly think of anything else. He was irritated when Remus tried to sit down next to him and coax some answers out of him.

"I doubt you were drugged," he said softly, "but what did you do at the party? You were pretty out of it."

"I made a fool of myself," Lucius groaned. "I may have insulted a co-worker who also happens to be in the position above me. I also embarrassed Narcissa. And I probably scarred Draco." He shook his head in bitter regret, burying his face in his hands again. "I let my guards down. Everyone saw me acting... not myself."

Remus patted him on the back. "We've all been there."

"But you were younger when it happened, weren't you?" Lucius scoffed. "And you certainly weren't in the process of building an important political career."

"It doesn't matter," said Remus. "This will all pass over in the morning."

Lucius could only hope that he was right.

He spent the remainder of the evening in Godric's Hollow, sulking on the couch while Draco and Harry tried to teach him how to play their "special" version of exploding snap, which seemed more like a practical joke than anything else.

He sipped a cup of cinnamon tea, which was surprisingly soothing, and wondered why he didn't let himself relax like that more often.

Probably out of fear of acting up like he had at the party, he thought. And what a load of good that did for him.

 

 


	19. Harry Potter and James' Present

The sun rose grudgingly through the haze of a cloudy sky, and Harry's head was fuzzy. It took him a few moments to realize that it was Christmas morning, and was a little surprised that he remembered at all. 

He supposed that there were some things that bad times couldn't spoil--being with Padfoot and Moony seemed to fix his foul mood, made him forget some things. And Draco, of course, Harry remembered. He would be over in the afternoon, since he would actually be celebrating with his family in the morning.

But with Padfoot and Moony, it was just an ordinary morning. And that was okay, because ordinary felt quite pleasant to him. Family was good.

Harry sat up and stretched with a smile before swinging out of bed to go to the kitchen. He could hear that his parents were up, mulling around the kitchen as the day began. He could smell Padfoot's coffee (and something else that was sweeter) and noticed the sound of something sizzling.

"Good morning!" he exclaimed, entering the living room. 

Moony acknowledged him with a smile, curled up on the sofa with a book and a cup of tea. "Good morning," he murmured, apparently still waking up. 

"Happy Christmas!" Padfoot called from the kitchen. 

"He's very excited this year," Moony whispered, rolling his eyes. "Can't stop that one, can I?"

"You could if you tried," Harry countered. "Besides, you put the Menorah up this year!" Harry knew that while Moony was now a strict atheist, he had grown up Jewish. Padfoot, on the other hand, knew nothing of Muggle religion and was simply a Christmas enthusiast. He liked the lights and the presents and the "Christmas spirit."

"True. I was feeling a bit nostalgic. Missing my mum, I guess," Moony answered, blinking tiredly as he sipped more of his tea. "Your grandmum, I guess. Feels a bit queer saying it."

"Perhaps because we are queer?" suggested Padfoot, walking into the sitting area with a spatula in hand. "Breakfast is ready. Extra festive."

"My favorite," Moony added dryly.

Harry just bit his lip in anticipation as he followed Pads into the kitchen. It wasn't that he was a bad cook (he was brilliant, in fact), but he could be a bit too...  _experimental_ at times, and usually just at Moony's expense. Harry was already imagining sausages colored with chili peppers or pancakes topped with pine needles.

If Padfoot were to pull a prank like that, he hoped there would be a back up.

Seeing the food set out for them, though, made him a little less worried. Neatly arranged on their plates were (normal, not festive looking) sausages and scones, the former being more Padfoot's special than the latter.

"It doesn't look very festive," Moony pointed out, sitting down to begin cutting at the meat.

"You sound disappointed," Padfoot teased, giving him a sneaky peck on the cheek as he sat down.

"I don't like false advertising," Moony grumbled.

"And I feel insulted," Padfoot countered. "Look, right there. Red and green peppers in the sausage. And I got some mint jelly to go with the strawberry, so we can have green and red!"

Harry almost gagged at the thought, and was afraid of having to stomach the combination just to appease Pads. He caught a glimpse at the pot of mint jelly, which looked green enough to be a potions ingredient.

"Sirius," Moony groaned, shaking his head. "You try too hard."

"No, I don't!" Sirius crowed, slathering a scone with butter. He took a dab of the mint and added it. "See, it's great!" He took a bite, and looked as though he was fighting a grimace.

"I'll take your word for it," Harry said with a smile, gratefully cutting into his sausage. He was happy to pass on the mint, festivities aside.

"At least appreciate the little trees I made with the rosemary sprigs," pouted Padfoot, picking up the piece of rosemary at the edge of his plate. 

Moony picked up his own rosemary sprig and smiled. "You're so creative."

"But Moony's right," Harry snickered. "You try too hard, Pa."

Padfoot just huffed and dejectedly stole a bite of sausage from Moony's plate.

Harry laughed, because it was good to be home, his parents' antics aside.

* * *

 

After breakfast, Padfoot had promised Harry that he had a surprise. He and Moony led him into their bedroom, where Padfoot had pulled out an worn-looking parcel out from under the bed.

"I had wanted to put this under a tree, but Moony wouldn't let me," he muttered, handing it over. "'Under the bed' just doesn't have quite the same ring to it. I promise there aren't any boggarts in your present, though."

Harry rolled his eyes at the poor joke, but his attention was quickly drawn to the package. He pulled at the twine bow that held it together, and then carefully unfolded the thick, parchment wrapping with reverence. Something about it seemed important.

His breath caught for a moment as he saw the material of the gift. It was there but not there at all, translucent and shimmering. It wasn't as if it was camouflage, but more like his eye just couldn't catch it. 

He lifted it up into the air. It was slightly heavy, and most definitely fabric. A cloak, perhaps.

"Er, what is it?" he asked, hoping he wasn't sounding rude.

Moony was smiling fondly at him. "Try putting it over your head," he suggested.

Harry did as he was asked, only to find that he didn't feel that much different. Looking through it made everything else like it was being filtered. 

"Did anything happen?"

"Go look in the mirror," Padfoot urged, ushering him out the door.

Harry stumbled a bit, but then shuffled into the bathroom. He turned to the mirror, wondering if he was standing in the wrong spot. He couldn't see himself.

Then, he realized.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak!" he exclaimed. He had heard of them, of course, but they were extremely rare. He had no idea that they worked so well, either; he couldn't even tell he had a reflection.

Padfoot appeared in the doorway, a smirk on his face. "That's right. I can't even see you. You're still in the bathroom, right?"

Harry grinned, and was about to confirm that when he had an idea. "Behind, you, actually," he whispered, trying to resist giggling.

Looking surprised for a moment, Padfoot turned around. "See! Duped me already. It's wicked, though, isn't it?"

Harry fought back a snicker as he crept up behind Padfoot. He stood up onto his tiptoes to tap Pads on the shoulder as he shouted, "Wicked!" in confirmation.

Padfoot jumped and let out a startled yelp. "I knew you would do that, you sneaky little...": He trailed off into laughter, shaking his head. "I don't know if I should take the credit or give it to James. He pulled the same trick on me when we were younger."

"This was James' cloak?" inquired Harry, pulling it off again so he could inspect it now that he knew it's function.

"That's right," Moony said, appearing in the hallway. "One of a kind. He and Padfoot used to wreak all kinds of havoc with it."

"Oh, come on, Moons," Padfoot cooed, batting his eyelashes. "You helped, too. We couldn't have done anything without your ingenious plans." He winked at Harry, and added, "Or that marvelous cloak."

"So this is how you pulled it off?" 

Harry had, of course, heard all of the Marauders' famous stories. It sounded as if they had loads of fun, especially according to Padfoot's accounts. But Harry wasn't quite sure he would want to have those kind of "adventures." That was more the Weasley twins' area.

What they would do for something like the Cloak.

"With some other resources, of course," Moony added, looking rather somber all of a sudden. "But that doesn't mean I want you making a fool od yourself and getting in trouble. That cloak doesn't make you invincible."

"Only invisible," Padfoot added, still looking as thrilled as before. "Now that Snape's a teacher, imagine all the opportunities--"

"Sirius," Moony cut him off, shooting him a glare. 

Padfoot cleared his throat. "Right. You're supposed to use this thing for good. And I guess pranking Snape's not on the good list."

"That's right," the more grave parent added. "And that also means not using it for sneaking out into danger. Like fighting Dark Lords."

 _Then why bother giving it to me at all?_ Harry thought, though he dismissed the thought quickly. While having the cloak would have made last year's midnight ventures more easy, he hoped he wouldn't have to be facing Voldemort again.

The Heir of Slytherin, on the other hand, was someone he was anticipating. He could imagine finding the Chamber a lot easier if he could remain invisible while doing it. He had thought about searching before, but he didn't want Draco finding out. 

But with the cloak, he could take Draco with him, without the added risk of getting caught. And then they could get to the bottom of whatever had hurt Hermione.

Harry had to admit that he was slightly afraid of the answer. Lately, he had been feeling a bit miserable, and he had to admit it was partly because he was afraid that  _he_ was the Heir. He had heard it enough times for it to get to his head.

So, it was his responsibility to find out. And now he had the means to.

"But I can use it to explore the castle, right?" Harry asked innocently, smiling up at his parents.

"Of course!" Padfoot exclaimed with a grin. "And I wouldn't tell you off for pulling the occasional prank...."

Moony elbowed him sharply, and then his gaze fell onto Harry. In that parental way, he seemed to be reading his mind. It made Harry uncomfortable. He had a feeling his wonderful morning was about to go sour.

"Come back into the sitting room, Lion," Moony instructed, his expression softening. "There's some things we should talk about."

Harry swallowed, wondering if he was about to be told off for something. It was more likely, however, that they would be discussing the Heir of Slytherin ordeal. And as much as he loved his parents' support, Harry wasn't sure he wanted to talk about either with him.

"Which things?" Padfoot demanded, trying to whisper but clearly failing. "You can't mean--"

"No, Sirius." Moony was much more successful with sounding quiet, but Harry could still hear. "We can't."

That just made Harry even more nervous, and he felt anxious as he sat down on the comfortable sofa. Clutching the cloak to his chest, he couldn't help but think that the stone settling in his stomach was an unwelcome complement to the warm fire in front of him.

"Then what is it?" he asked, trying to sound demanding, but his voice cracked as he said it.

Moony didn't seem to mind. He sat down across from Harry in a chair, and Padfoor went to Harry's side, placing a careful arm around him. 

"Is everything alright?" Harry asked, hesitant to lean into Padfood's touch. 

With a reassuring squeeze, Padfoot smiled and said, "It's alright, Harry. It's Christmas, after all." He threw a meaningful look at Moony, who cast it off with a grimace. 

"Harry, things have gone a bit off the dry end lately," Moony began. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his amber eyes reflecting the morning light streaming in from the window. He looked troubled. 

"Yeah, I can see that," Harry answered gruffly, already not pleased with the way the conversation was going. "The school hates me and thinks I'm some kind of Dark Lord, you two keep getting trouble with the papers, and Hermione's been turned to stone! I'm not stupid, Da. I've seen it as it happens." 

He hadn't meant to say so much, but he really was angry. There was so much going on and so little to do, and perhaps even less to say out loud, so of course he was bound to burst eventually. 

"He never said you were stupid," Padfoot reminded him. "It's okay."

But twelve year old boys are rarely able to remain calm in emotional situations, and Harry was no exception. He had been raised in a way where he was used to expressing his emotions (in a way he might not have in some other world where he was raised by less loving individuals), and after a year of having to suppress them because of the public's prying eye, there was no way of keeping them in much longer. 

Harry began to cry. His face felt hot and his chest was tight with frustration. He shoved away from Padfoot because the normally comforting presence felt more like a heavy, patronizing burden. 

"No, it's not okay!" he exclaimed, burying his face in his hands as he tried to suppress a hiccough. "I'm so scared, and alone, and no one's told me anything!"

Padfoot tried to reach out again. "Harry--"

"No!" he cut him off with a bat of his hand. "No," he repeated, taking a deep breath, which resulted in a shudder as it combatted another hiccough. "The only person who's been honest with me is Snape, and you're always trying to tell me he's a lying snake! That's confusing! You sound like you're lying! You never even try and help me!"

"Harry, that's not true," Padfoot cut in, his voice sounding weak. "We're doung everything we can! It's not fair to--"

This time, Moony cut him off. He had remained silent through Harry's rant, looking pensive and concerned. 

"Let him talk," he whispered. "Don't invalidate him."

Harry took another breath and lowered his voice, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. In only a few minutes, he was already a mess. Moony somehow managed to procure some tissue paper to hand to him. 

"It's just"--Harry blew his nose, a little calmer now--"we never _really_ talked about what happened with Quirrel last year. Or about the zoo. We talk, but I never get answers." Harry looked up from his lap to see two intent, teary-eyed parents. "I feel like you and Dumbledore don't take me seriously."

"Don't compare me to him," Padfoot muttered darkly, turning his cheek.

"He has a point, love," Moony pointed out, reaching across to take his partner's hand. Turning to Harry, he added, "But we're just trying to protect you."

Harry bit his lip, and he didn't believe Moony for a second. "How?" he retorted. "How are you protecting me?"

Padfoot laughed. "Don't ask us," he growled. "It's not like we have much say in the matter."

"What?" Harry perked up immediately. Riling Padfoot up always seemed to evoke answers, whether he intended to or not. 

"He means Dumbledore," Moony answered with a sigh. "There are certain ways we have to do things to... well...." He trailed off, a frown contorting his face. 

"To keep the Headmaster happy," Padfoot supplied. "We don't like it, Harry. You know that."

Harry rubbed at his face, noticing his tears had dried up. Crying would get him nowhere. 

"So, you just don't tell me?" 

"It's not like that," Moony cut in quickly, probably before Pads could say anything to revealing. "Harry, Dumbledore has a lot of power. He keeps us safe. He keeps reporters off of our backs."

Harry didn't say anything. He supposed it made sense, though he was having trouble thinking of any situations in particular when Dumbledore had actually stepped in and helped. 

"Oh, sprinkle a little more sugar on it, would you?" Padfoot scoffed, and Harry cringed a bit. He rarely heard him speak harshly with the other parent. "Dumbledore has us on a string, Remus. He dangles us along, _saying_ he'll help, but he never actually does! Not until the last minute, and unless we're doing _exactly_ as he says, the problems always come back."

Harry sat back, trying to figure what Pads meant by that. What did Dumbledore want them to do? He remembered regular visits from the old man, a few conversations, but the main discussions were kept between the adults.

Another way Harry was left in the dark.

"Sirius," Moony said warningly.

"No!" Pads barked. "I hear Harry on this. Let's talk for once. We spent years listening to Dumbledore, hiding, and running when we could, and in the end, it got us nowhere! Because we weren't safe when we stopped hiding, because Harry was still attacked, because there are still people talking about him like he's a monster!"

"He can't control that," Moony countered, and Harry suddenly felt like he wasn't in the room at all. "I dislike it as much as you do! I'm not fighting about that, Sirius. But the Order is all we have right now. I might not agree, but we have to."

Harry felt lost, drowning in a sea of information that was pounding so loudly at his ears, he couldn't understand what was happening. He had brief flashes of memories-- _Dumbledore stepping in at the last moment to stop Quirrel, Dumbledore cutting off Snape's meeting with them, Dumbledore, Dumbledore, Dumbledore_ \--

"Think of what he's done to _us_ , Remus," Pafoot growled. "Couldn't he work some of that magic to defend Harry? If we're so important, if Harry is so valuable, then why can't he do something for us once? Make everyone shut up. Let us go outside, let us talk to our boy, let us say we're his parents!"

Harry's mind was beginning to race, more and more flashbacks from the past two years, and even more from his childhood. Things were safer when they hid, when they stayed in their charmed house or ran far away in some muggle city. It was better when Harry wasn't the Boy Who Lived.

He realized that all changed when he insisted that his parents come out of the closet, when he went to school. This, he realized, all of this was his fault.

He began to cry again, this time bitter, guilty tears. He melted into the back of the sofa, and only felt even worse when Pads and Moons didn'y notice.

"You know why!" Moony snapped, his voice level and quiet but terrifying all the same. "It's because Harry--because Harry--"

Harry took a moment to look up through his tears to see why Moony was stuttering. It posed more questions than answers. 

Around his throat, a thin gold tendril seemed to he searing it's way around in a wicked spiral. He seemed to be unable to speak, and his eyes were wide with shock and terror. 

"Remus!" Padfoot exclaimed, jumping to his feet to grab onto Moony. "Oh, shit... Remus, love, I'm sorry, don't say anything. You can't say anything. Don't think. Oh, Merlin, I can't believe you--"

Moony let out a sputter and a cough, and Harry felt a tension in his shoulders release. He had been too shocked to speak. 

He wasn't like Padfoot. He couldn't jump in to rescue him. Maybe in another world he might have. 

"I'm sorry," Harry choked. He was sorry for causing this mess. For making them come out. For being a Slytherin. For sneaking around. For aggravating Dumbledore. For making them talk about this. 

"Oh," Moony breathed, and his face began to restore it's color. "No, Harry, I'm sorry. None of this is your fault."

"It's alright," Padfoot affirmed. It sounded like an empty promise. 

Moony pushed himself out of his seat to sit next to Harry, wrapping him in a bear hug that he just couldn't push away. 

"Like I said, there are just certain things we can't do," Moony whispered.

Harry gave up completely on holding back the tears. It was all unfair. 

"It's all Dumbledore," Pads insisted. 

"It's not you," Moony repeated. "I just need you to know that."

* * *

Sirius stood a few feet away as the two people he loved most wept. 

He saw the Invisibility Cloak had fallen to the floor, crumpled and dejected. The other two were oblivious to him as he picked it up and held it close like a comfort blanket, taking a seat a little bit away from them. 

He felt as he had the day he had found James. Helpless, desperate. 

Broken. 

Clutching James' present to his chest made him feel no better. James had given it to him just before he and Lily had gone completely into hiding. 

"I won't need it," he had said, his brown eyes somehow still light with mirth in the middle of a war. "You stay safe. That's all that matters."

Remus and Peter would be safe. Sirius was the secret keeper that everyone expected. Sirius was in danger. 

But of course it was James who really needed it. It was James who could have used it to get away that night.

Sirius knew he wouldn't have, of course. He was far too noble. He would never hide. Sirius was being selfish if he ever expected James to do that sort of thing. 

All Sirius wanted was for Harry to have a little more sense. Maybe it was good he was a little less Gryffindor. 

Maybe, when the time came, Harry would be smart enough to save himself. Maybe he would be clever enough to come up with some brilliant way to defeat Voldemort without Dumbledore's horrid plan. Maybe Harry would have the people he needed to overcome a Dark enemy without destroying himself.

Maybe Harry would put James' present to good use. Not just the cloak--that wasn't James gift to Harry. That was for Sirius, and Sirius was passing it on so the boy could save himself.

James' present to Harry was standing in the doorway, fending off the Death Eaters instead of running to save himself. 

Lily may have made the clear sacrifice, but James made the same one. 

And even if the world was saved, even if it was a selfish thought, Sirius thought Harry having to die would be such a waste of James' present. 

So maybe it was good Harry was a Slytherin. Maybe he would find a way out. 

Maybe James' stupid, noble bravery would have been worth it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY FOR THE ANGST IDK WHY THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS  
> I PROMISE I DONT HATE MY CHARACTERS  
> OR YOU  
> THINGS WILL BE OKAY I PROMISE
> 
> feel free to yell at me, your humble angst generator, in the comments


	20. Draco Malfoy and the Eyes in the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited or beta-ed. I literally just wrote this an hour ago. I wanted to update the story.

It was late in the evening on Christmas day. Draco hadn't gotten to go see Harry as planned because something had "come up."

That was alright, he supposed. Harry saw Draco more than he saw his dads anyway, so it was only fair. 

But it didn't help that Draco was terribly bored. He had spent the day sulking, wandering around the Manor. There was hardly a room he hadn't explored, and he practically knew the gardens like the back of his hand, so it wasn't that fun. 

And it was even less fun without Harry's story telling. He would come up with ridiculous explanations for scars in a tree, and would give a back story to every portrait that was too snooty to tell it to them. 

(Most of them never spoke. Father had said it was because they were ashamed of him switching sides. But there were a few that he called "real Malfoys," and they still spoke, because family was more important than loyalty.)

There had been less and less of that story-telling, though. School was keeping them busy, and so was the whole Heir of Slytherin ordeal.

Draco sighed and leaned against the wall, letting himself slide to the floor. Across from him was the snoozing portrait of Lady Antoniette Malfoy, her head dipped ever so slighty and her eyes were shut. 

She would be ashamed to be caught like that, so he woke her up. She was usually one of the more talkative portraits, anyway, though he hadn't spoken to her since leaving for Hogwarts.

"Lady Antoinette," he whispered. "Wake up!"

Her head snapped up and her hands flew to readjust the pale blue ribbon in her hair. 

"I was awake," she snapped, turning her head to the side.

"I know," Draco lied, smirking. "Are you in a mood to talk, Lady?"

Her nose wrinkled ever-so-slightly. "I suppose you aren't terrible company," she replied, turning her face back to him. "Back from school, I assume?"

"Yeah," he grumbled, wondering when the last time he was so bored he had to talk to a portrait. "How'd you know?"

The corner of her mouth tipped into a smirk. "Lots of things get around, darling," she said. "Specifically, your great, great, great, great... something or other. I lose track. He has a portrait at Hogwarts, you know. Afton, I believe is his name; he's usually _such_ a bore."

That caught Draco's attention. The Lady was always neck-deep in gossip, and would kill for anything good. Draco had never heard her talk about anything besides the other portraits, though. 

This was more interesting. 

"Usually?" asked Draco. "Has he had any interesting stories from Hogwarts as of late?"

"Not interesting on account of _him_ ," she sniffed, "but interesting all the same. Quite a bit of chatter about you, darling. You and that Boy Who Lived are awfully close."

"His name's Harry," Draco snapped back immediately.

"I know," Antoinette answered, looking down at her fingernails. "But that's irrelevant for now. What's interesting is that he got rid of that Riddle fellow... What did they call him?"

"The Dark Lord," Draco supplied, his throat going dry. "You called him Riddle?"

"That was what they called him before the war," she purred, looking thrilled to have caught his attention. "Your father was still young, then, but we could hear him chatting about this powerful new leader.... And then, the war came, and we actually started seeing him."

"F-Father brought him here?"

"Of course he did! I know they keep you in the dark, love, but didn't they ever tell you this before? Last year, when you had your little tantrum.... Surely your mother wrote you a letter? Someone must have said something!"

"They did," he said, frowning. "But not a lot. Tell me more."

"It's not really my place...."

"Our little secret, Lady," he said, trying to cajole her. "Come on. No one really appreciates how important you are, do they? But you can help me, can't you?"

Antionette frowned, and seemed to peek around the corners of her portrait. 

"Would you visit me more often if I do tell you?"

"Whenever I'm home. It must get very lonely."

"Oh, darling, it _does_ ," the Lady sighed, suddenly looking very relieved. "No one ever tells you what torture it is being in a portrait. Part of you never gets to leave, never gets to move on! And I'm stuck in here forever, watching an empty house with no one to talk about! I have to listen to _Afton_ , if I want gossip. That's how bone dry talk is here, darling."

Draco nodded patiently. Now that he had gotten her to talk, he would have to wait for something useful. 

"You know, we all watch. We all listen. It's what we're here for. But why bother keeping us around if there's no one to talk to? There's the house elves, but why talk to them? Filthy little creatures." Her lip curled and she shook her head. "No, since your father changed, it's been so empty. Not that it was more pleasant when it was full! No, no, they were a nasty type, your father's friends... but very handsome."

"And the Dark Lord?" Draco asked. "Did you ever see him?"

"Occasionally," she sighed. "He was handsome when he was young, but towards the end, not as much. But we would all try and cram into the portraits of whatever room he was in to watch. We never got caught. No one pays attention to us anyways."

"You watch us?" Draco inquired. He was surprised she remebered so much. He hadn't really ever thought of the portraits as that sentient.

"Not all of us," she shrugged. "Some of them don't seem to notice at all. They live in their portraits. But some us can see. Hear. Talk." She giggled and wrung her hands together, for a moment seeming most unladylike. "It's nice, in a way. I feel like I can know everything."

"You must be very special," Draco told her. "I don't think I've met another portrait so smart. Or powerful, I suppose."

"Oh, I'm very powerful," she purred. "Most of me is in this portrait, after all. A lot of the other paintings just let themselves pass on.... They stop talking so much."

"Are you more like a ghost, then?"

"Oh, darling, I don't know! Go read a book. You can't ask your little mudblood to do that for you anymore, though, can you?" It sounded like an insult, but her face softened with sympathy.

"Don't say 'mudblood,'" Draco grumbled, feeling rather uncomfortable. 

"Oh, that's right," Antionette sighed. "Again with your little Boy Who Lived. And your father, I suppose, with the Headmaster always on his back. Doesn't want him saying that. Or you."

"The contract, you mean? Do you know about that?"

The Lady winced. "That's very secretive, sweet. You have a lot of big questions."

"I'm sure you noticed people usually don't answer me."

"Of course I noticed! It's dreadful, darling. I know the pain."

Suddenly, Draco had an idea. 

"What if I found a way to get your portrait into Hogwarts?" he asked her. "Then, you wouldn't be so bored. And you could tell me what you know about my father. And the Dark Lord."

"I'd tell you anything if you got me out of here," she said, her eyes going wide. "I think you best find that book on portraits now, darling. We can chat later. I've already said too much for now."

* * *

Usually, if Draco wanted to know something, he would just ask his mother. But something about this felt a lot more secretive. Clandestine. Like she couldn't know. 

So, when Mother went out into the gardens to tend to her plants, Draco ran into the library to find a book on portraits.

Lady Antoinette would hang in the empty portraits in the library while Draco climbed the ladders to reach onto the high shelves for the books. She would whisper to him about the things she had heard about him and Harry from "Afton," whom Draco hadn't been able to find in any of the portraits in the house. 

Some of her information was off, and Draco would absent-mindedly correct her. But, mostly, Draco was focused on finding the book. Mother had never taught him how she organized it. It was like her own secret little garden of knowledge. 

He was at it for hours, until the thin winter sunlight streamed through the tall windows like golden shafts. The old leather bound spines of the books would glow with warmth, and Draco felt nostalgic for his early childhood spent sitting by the bay window, studying away. 

"Have you found it, yet?" the Lady whispered, standing on the blue sofa in one of the taller portraits to meet Draco's level. "I can't see you from here. Are you high up?"

"A few feet above you," Draco answered, running his fingers over green and brown books with Latin titles. "And no. It shouldn't be this hard...."

He was tempted to try and summon the book, but he didn't want to disturb his mother's library. He would have to keep climbing. 

"Hurry up," Antionette demanded. "This is getting dull."

"And what would you be doing otherwise?" Draco snarked, climbing down the latter. As he was going, a red book spine with gold lettering caught his eye. 

"Not much," she admitted, "but mind your words! Your father was more polite when he was your age. Granted, he never spoke to us portraits... You're the first in at least two centuries, actually...."

Draco wasn't listening anymore. He reached through the rungs of the ladder for the book. 

_Intelligent Portraits_

He pulled it out and read the title.

_How to Create, Utilise, and Benefit From the Eyes in the Wall_

_By Judas Sparmeadow_

_"_ I found one!" Draco exclaimed excitedly. "I think I've got the one!" 

"About time!"

Draco laughed and began climbing down back to the floor. "I can't believe it actually was there. I didn't really think that you were--"

"Draco? Who are you talking to?"

Draco jumped and spun around, seeing his mother walk into the room. Her hair was pulled up and she was still wearing her gardening gloves.

"No one, mother," Draco laughed nervously. "I just got excited about this book, I suppose. I, er--it's a sequel. I loved the first one so much, I--"

Mother laughed and pulled her gloves off, and took Draco into a gentle hug. 

"I'm not surprised," she whispered, stroking his back. "You know, I've missed you, my dragon. Things have changed."

Draco awkwardly tried to hug her back, feeling stuck between the book and his lie. 

"I'm sorry, mother."

"Don't be," she urged, pulling away. "I'm just glad to see you happy, despire everything." She placed a hand on his cheek, watching him with a fond expression. "Everything will be alright."

"Why wouldn't it be?" he asked, laughing nervously. 

"Oh." Mother's face fell a moment. "Don't fret about it, dragon. Your father's affairs don't concern you yet."

"What about him?" he demanded, suddenly feeling nervous. 

Mother's hands fell to her sides. "Nothing," she promised. "Now, go read your book. And don't forget to come to dinner tonight!"

She walked past him, towards a far shelf. Draco hugged his book to his chest and ran back to his room. 

* * *

He ate his dinner quickly that night to return to reading the new book. 

What he had learned was similar to what the Lady had told him. Some portraits had more life in them than others, and were more aware. 

It depended on how well the artist knew the subject of the painting, and how much of their magic they were willing to put into the painting. Even fictional subjects in portraits could become self aware (intelligent) if enough detail was put into them. 

He had thought that she was just a ghosr living in a painting, based off of what she said about "passing on," but the book didn't mention anything about that. 

"Well?" the Lady asked. "Can you put my portrait into the school?"

"I can't move yours from the house," Draco answered, setting the book aside. He was lying on his bed, using his wand for light. It was getting late. "It's tied to the other portraits here. Moving it would kill you. It says here that some portraits can't be removed at all."

"Then can you do anything?" she sighed. She had crammed herself into the small painting of dragons above Draco's bed. It seemed to be much smaller than what she was used to. 

"I would have to make you another painting," Draco explained. "It would probably already have to be at Hogwarts. I'm not sure about the wards letting it happen."

"Afton can get in."

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. Antoinette had yet to elaborate at all about who this Afton was precisely. Draco would almost prefer to go directly to him, but the Lady insisted she wouldn't talk to "traitors."

"He must have been part of the school," Draco murmured. "I'll have to try and paint you, and then put magic into it. It might take a while, though. I don't really know how to do it."

"Pay someone else to do it," the Lady sighed. "You're a Malfoy. You don't have to do your own work."

"Yes, I do," Draco insisted. "I want to do this. I am a good artist, after all."

"You do pencil sketches, darling," she grumbled, budging one of the tiny dragons in the painting away. "I want to be in full color!"

"You'll get what you get," Draco retorted. "I probably won't finish it this year. But I have the book now, so I'll work on it."

"Fine," Lady Antoinette sighed. "How about I tell you some more before you sleep?"

"Are you sure you're alright in that painting? It's only a meter squared." The other portraits around the house were usually triple that size. 

"I'm fine, darling."

"Alright, then." Draco set the book underneath his pillow and crawled under his sheets. 

"Your mother's Christmas party was the most life there's been here since you were born," she said, laying herself down on the grass. A dragon hatchling settled a few feet away from her, watching intently. "Not that your father's meeting here during the war weren't. But those were a different kind of lively."

Draco grimaced and tried not to imagine Death Eaters filling his home. 

"But that Christmas ball? There was dancing and music.... Your mother seemed happier than she's been in years. She got to talk to other women! Salazar knows when she got that luxury outside of her work." The Lady's laugh sounded wistful. 

"But your father seemed off. Afraid. A lot of his colleagues were there, you know. I'm not sure if that was it, though. He got drunk very fast. I saw it right through the velvet portrait by the doors to the hall.

"But it wasn't quite right. I've watched your father his whole life. He doesn't drink like that. So I searched around, asking the other portraits if they'd seen any. Most of them hadn't bothered to visit the ball room, you know. Too disgusted by the guests.

"But Lady Cherie, who lives in the blue portrait by the kitchens, she said she saw a man in black dress robes mess with your father's drink. But then, he ran off. He was looking for something."

Draco felt his eyelids going heavy, but was straining to listen. This sounded very important. 

"So I went to ask Lucius I, who lives on the next floor in your father's study, you must know that already.... Anyway, he claims to have seen the man trying to search your father's study, and the surrounding rooms. But he left, and then there was a large commotion."

Draco turned to his side and looked up at the portrait. The Lady was sitting up now, looking rather perplexed. Draco willed himself to pay attention.

"So I asked my dear cousin...."

Draco's eyes shut. His breathing was heavy. Antoinette's words became more like the narration of a dream, though he doubted any of it was actually real.

He dreamed of Mr. Parkinson, sulking around the house. He was looking for a book that he has lost (though Draco was sure that was his mind slipping in his own actions of the day).

Then, Dobby (his favorite house elf) had shown up and started yelling at Mr. Parkinson. Mr. Parkinson started yelling about books and Professor Lockhart, and that was when Draco knew he was really dreaming, and that his mind was just acting crazy. 

The dream ended with Father's face on a book that the Lady had written, and Draco had painted over all the portraits in Hogwarts. 

When he woke up the next morning, he barely remembered his dream. 

Why should he worry about Mr. Parkinson and books, after all?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get that the Lady's dialect definitely doesn't correspond with her time. So sorry about that. She's supposed to be from the late 1700s of French descent (and not Marie Antionette, ahah). 
> 
> Also, I realized I've never explicitl stated this, but I imagine the sun room and the library to be the same thing, and it's the warmest and brightest room in the house. Originally, it was divided, but when Draco was two, Narcissa insisted on removing the wall. It has lovely wooden shelves and soft upholstered green sofas, and the windowseats next to te bay windows overlooking the garden. The rest of the house is mostly stony and cold and empty, left untouched once the Dark magic was taken from it. The house has lost most of its life, except the library/sun room.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the Lady! There will be more of her, but probably not in this book. The next one!
> 
> And I realized I never had much Narcissa in this, besides her being bitchy with Lucius. She loves Draco more than anything, and does everything in hope of making his life better. Lucius does the same, but in a different way, and they don't see eye to eye on how Draco should be raised.


	21. Draco Malfoy and the Return

"How was your Christmas?"

Draco looked up from his portrait book, confronted by an unsuspected voice over the rickety noises of the train. Harry was off changing into his school robes, and Blaise and Theo had gone to find Neville.

Which left Draco alone in the compartment. Except, now, he wasn't alone. He had a rather unwanted visitor.

"Fine, Parkinson," he growled, snapping his book shut and tucking it beside him so she couldn't see what he was reading. "Why do you care, anyway?"

She shrugged and leaned on the doorway, clutching onto it as the train bounced a bit. "I heard your father got a bit drunk at your mum's party. Isn't going over to well at the Ministry."

"I hadn't heard." Draco bit his lip. He had, of course, heard his mother complaining about the event, but he refused to admit to it in front of Parkinson. That would be like admitting weakness in front of an enemy.

"Oh, pity," she giggled, smirking to show off glistening teeth. "I heard he made a total _fool_ of himself. Father's going to do an interview with _The Prophet_ about it. And he says he knows some very bad things about your _daddy_ that he can tell them."

"Are you threatening me?" Draco demanded. "Because if your father's playing dirty, he should talk to my father about it. Not by sending his _little girl_ as a messenger."

Parkinson scowled at him. "What are you going to do about it, anyway? Father tells them about the little Dark objects he found, and your father's dust."

"We don't _have_ Dark objects," Draco insisted, turning his face to look out the window. "Besides, Dumbledore will protect us."

Parkinson laughed coldly. "We'll see about that, Malfoy." She paused and let out a surprised noise. "But I better be going before your Potter shows up and chases me off, hm?"

He didn't look back, but he could tell she was gone when Harry sat down next to him.

"What was that all about? Parkinson bothering you?"

"It's nothing," Draco muttered, putting his book back on his lap. He opened it to the page he was on and continued reading.

_The creation of a magical portrait requires as much care as it does artistic talent. This is how portraits differ from photographs. Because of the care and the magic put into them, portraits are able to have personas, which increase in accuracy and intensity depending on the artist...._

"What are you reading, anyway?" Harry asked, peering over his shoulder.

"It's for a project," Draco replied absently, trying to focus on the words. He wanted to learn as much as possible so he could get Lady Antoinette into the castle soon, even if soon might not have been until the next year.

"Really? Did we have homework? I must've forgotten." Harry shifted awkwardly and laughed. "You want to help me? It's Charms, isn't it?"

Draco sighed and closed the book again. "No, it's not Charms," he said. "Don't worry about it. It's just something I'm interested in."

"Alright," Harry replied. "Blaise and Theo still looking for Neville?"

"Got him!" came a familiar voice.

Theo was sliding into the compartment. Blaise followed with an arm around Neville.

"We've captured the Gryffindor once more!" he exclaimed.

"I came willingly," Neville grumbled, taking the window seat. Blaise and Theo squished in next to him.

"Hullo, Neville," Harry said. "Pads and Moons said they'd visit your dad. Did that happen?"

Neville shrugged. "Dad's been busy with work lately. I spent break mostly with my grandma."

"She's _crazy,"_ Blaise exclaimed. "She's got a vulture on her head!"

"She what?" Draco asked. He felt like he was the only one in the group who wasn't close with Neville. He supposed it was part of his jealousy as a little kid.

"She's got this hat," Neville exclaimed, an exasperated look on his face. "It's got a stuffed vulture on it. I dunno. She scares me."

"At least you have a grandma," Theo pointed out. "Those two don't!"

"Rude," Harry replied, rolling his eyes. "We make do, right, Draco?"

"Oh yeah," Draco replied, rolling his eyes as well. "I mean, Dumbledore's practically our grandfather. What's better than that?"

Blaise and Theo laughed hysterically, but Neville looked a little flustered.

"I think that's great," he mumbled. "I mean, the Headmaster is the greatest wizard of all time! He defeated Grindelwald!"

"Yeah, well Harry defeated Voldemort," Theo pointed out, "and no one's made him Mugwump yet."

"I don't plan on it, either," said Harry.

"I dunno." Draco shrugged. "Politics are weird. So's Dumbledore." He wanted to change the subject. "Anyone get good gifts this year!"

Blaise and Theo both let out enthusiastic cries. Neville just grinned, and Harry didn't react at all.

"I got a bunch of Falmouth Falcon merchandise," crowed Blaise.

"The newest edition in the _Mages' Mayhem_ series!" Theo proclaimed.

"My grandma knitted Trevor a sweater," mumbled Neville. He patted at his pocket, and a lump inside his robe began to throb.

"Oh, Nev, mate," groaned Blaise. "You still have that swamp creature?"

"He gives me a sense of responsibility!"

Draco laughed at poor Neville and his hapless toad. Shaking his head, he turned to Harry. "What about you?"

Harry grinned and nudged his shoulder. "Nothing exciting," he said casually.

That, of course, translated to quite the opposite.

* * *

 

They arrived at Hogwarts safe and sound, and had a school dinner that wasn't quite as good as what the Malfoy elves usually cooked. The atmosphere was a mixture of happy reunion and dread of the next day's classes.

Harry dragged Draco out a bit early, part to get away from the crowds, and part (or so Draco hoped) to elaborate on his Christmas holidays. Whatever he was planning, it was out of the way. Harry grabbed him by the sleeve of his robe and dragged him towards the other end of the castle, away from the dungeons.

"Where are we going?" Draco whined. "Are you going to tell me about your holiday or not?"

"Hold on," Harry muttered. He pulled him into an empty classroom, closing the door behind him.

"What's the deal?"

"Pads and Moons and I had a lot to talk about. But they explained some things about Dumbledore and the Heir," Harry said. He was reaching into the bag he had been carrying around. "But we can go over that later. I wanted to show you this."

Harry pulled out a glimmering... _something_ out of the bag. It seemed to shift and shimmer, and was colorful and invisible all at once.

"What's that?" Draco asked, reaching out to touch it. It felt like snake scales, he thought, if they were more fluid.

"Watch this." Harry threw the thing over himself like a cloak, and then he wasn't there at all.

"Harry?"

"Cool, right?"

"Are you...invisible?" Draco reached out to touch him, and felt that he was still there. "Whoa."

"Right?" Harry lifted up the cloak so half of him was visible again. "Pads and Moons warned me to be careful, but think of all the exploring we could do with this!"

Draco grinned and ducked under the cloak as well, so he and Harry were touching. "See how much Dumbledore can hide from us now," he snickered.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, shuffling forwards a few feet. "If we can fit under it together. I thought we could practice walking around in here."

It was a smart idea, because staying under the cloak while moving along with Harry was hard. Draco was a few inches taller than him, and usually the cloak would just slip off of Harry. It took them about an hour, but they were able to get good at coordinated shuffling under their invisible blanket shield.

Draco felt unstoppable.

* * *

 

The next morning was quite a different sensation. With no Invisibility Cloak to hide under, there were plenty of things he couldn't avoid.

Like Defense Class.

Lockhart had, surprisingly, returned to school after the break. He was not, miraculously, kidnapped by yetis or neo Death Eaters, though he spent the entire period describing the dozens of close calls he had outside of Hogwarts' protective walls.

Even though Draco knew Lockhart was a weirdo and a creep, he was still impressed. The fact that Lockhart could lead such an adventurous life was impressive, and part of him still wanted to be like that.

Draco thought that if he ever became an adventurer like Lockhart, he wouldn't want to teach at schools or waste his time making fashion statements. He certainly didn't think he would be humble, and he did hope to be famous, but he would have rather been out having adventures all the time than just on the holidays.

He zoned about halfway through class and began to daydream about becoming Lockhart when he was older. Handsome, famous, successful, and having lots of fun. He imagined running through the wilderness with Harry fighting for the cause of good.

Maybe they wouldn't hunt werewolves, but there were lots of other amazing things they could do.

After class, Harry looked as agitated as ever.

"Ugh. We never learn anything in that class. How can anyone believe a word he says?"

"I believe him," Draco admitted. "I mean, isn't it all exciting? Wouldn't you want to be like that?"

"No!" exclaimed Harry. "And I thought you were over obsessing over him."

"I'm not obsessing," Draco retorted. "He may be a prick, but he's brilliant. I mean, he's an adventurer. A hero!"

Harry groaned and rolled his eyes. "I don't want to talk about him. Let's just go to class."

Draco sighed and followed after him. He certainly no longer felt unstoppable. The unpleasantries of the year were starting to pile up again. Lockhart, Harry's bad moods...

He remembered that Hermione was still in the Hospital Wing, and soon they would be bugged by people about the Heir of Slytherin. All they needed was another paralyzed student and maybe an angry Weasley, and school would have picked up on its regular pace again.

Idly, Draco wondered if muggle schools were so hectic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the transitional chapter :/ Don't worry, things shall progress next chapter!!
> 
> In the meanwhile, only 2-3 chapters left of In Like A Lion for those of you who are reading! Once that's over, I should be moving more quickly on this. 
> 
> *laughs maniacally because in actuality I have 3 other multi-chapter works I'm already busy with*


	22. Draco Malfoy and the House Elf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update? Yes, that's right, I'm actually early!

The dungeons were freezing.

Back at home, Draco had a fireplace in his bedroom, and several wool and down blankets to keep him warm. When he was younger, sometimes Mother would give him a warming charm.

But back at Hogwarts, there was no warm fireplace in the dorm room. He had a few thin wool blankets and stiff sheets that he struggled to pull up all the way to cover his neck. His toes were cold, even with his socks on, and he wished for nothing more than to be able to cast a warming charm.

Next year, he would know better and ask Mother to help him pack warmer bedding. 

But for now, he was left tossing and turning, curling himself into a fetal position to try and keep every part of him warm. It wasn't working particularly well, however, so he buried his head into his pillow and let out a groan.

No one else stirred. They were all warmer-bodied than him, anyway. Harry was practically a living heater, and Crabbe and Goyle had enough layers of fat that winter probably didn't get to them at all. But Draco was frail, and very cold.

"I wish Dobby were here," he murmured under his breath. "Something warm would be nice."

He knew, of course, that it was implausible. There was no way even a house elf could Apparate into--

_ Crack. _

Draco sat up in alarm and felt a heavy weight on his feet. He let out a terrified exclamation and tried to kick it off, but it was struggling. He couldn't see it because his eyes had yet to adjust to the dark.

"Master Draco!"

Draco stopped trying to kick the thing at the end of his bed. He knew that voice. Alarmed, he tilted his head and squinted his eyes.

"Dobby?"

"Yes!" the house elf exclaimed, crawling up closer to Draco. "Master knows! I is Dobby!"

Shaking his head, Draco sat up all the way. "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"Master called," Dobby replied, not bothering to be quiet.

"Hush. Whisper!" Draco ordered. "We mustn't wake anyone up."

"Draco?" Harry's sleepy voice echoed from the next bed over. "Is something wrong?"

Draco froze. "It's fine, Harry. Go back to sleep."

"No." Harry sat up, grasping for his wand with one hand and his glasses with the other. He cast  _ lumos  _ and shoved his glasses on his face. "Merlin's pants, Draco! Is that--"

"Harry Potter!" gasped Dobby. "Mister Potter has grown! Dobby did not recognize!" The elf hopped off the bed to greet Harry, who was still blinking heavily to rid the sleep from his eyes.

"Hush up," hissed Draco. "We can't wake anyone."

"Oh." Harry sat up swung his feet off the bed. "Let's go somewhere else, then."

"Dobby can be going, sirs," Dobby replied. "Dobby does not mind. Dobby is sorry for waking the young masters."

"It's fine, Dobby," Draco groaned. "It's my fault anyway."

Silently, without much coordination, Harry and Draco both slipped shoes onto their feet while Dobby waited patiently by the door. Harry took the Invisibility cloak for good measure (and novelty, as well), and they tiptoed down into the common room.

"What are you doing here, Dobby?" asked Harry, once they were by the fire.

"Dobby is answering Master Draco's call," the elf answered, trying to push himself up onto an ottoman. 

"I didn't think you'd hear me," Draco replied, still keeping his voice low in case a prefect were to hear. "You can't get into Hogwarts, can you? That can't be allowed."

"It is, Master Draco!" Dobby held his hands over his ears. "Dobby is doing nothing wrong! Dobby is just listening to Master Draco!"

Harry reached out a hand to pat Dobby's shoulder. "It's alright."

Dobby wiped at his forehead with a knobbed hand, nodding silently. "Can Dobby be helping the young masters?"

"I suppose." Draco sighed and sat on the arm of one of the chairs. "I was cold. Maybe a cup of tea. Or warm milk."

The house elf's thin lips stretched to reveal a zealous, small-toothed smile. "Dobby is happy to be getting Master a drink! Dobby will go see his friends in the kitchens." He looked as though he were about to Apparate away, but Harry grasped his arm, making the poor creature jolt.

"Wait," said Harry. "The kitchens? There are kitchens here?"

Dobby blinked with large, confused blue eyes. "Yes, there is kitchens at Hogwarts. House elves needs a place to cook!"

"Oh." Harry frowned. "I thought the food just showed up."

"You can't conjure food, Harry," Draco replied dryly. "Haven't you picked up a book?"

"Shut up," Harry mumbled. "You're making me miss Hermione."

Draco fell silent at that. He tried his best not to think of their fallen friend, but when he did, he was sad. It was hard to believe that she was still in the Hospital Wing, missing out on school. He hadn't visited her as much as Harry had, which he found almost ironic.

He was pulled from his thoughts by Dobby shyly clearing his throat.

"Would Masters like Dobby to show yous the kitchens?"

"Yeah," Harry answered immediately. "We can try out our cloak, too!"

Casting a nervous glance around the room, Draco nodded in agreement. "Why not?" He liked exploring, after all.

As long as they didn't encounter any professors, that was. And it would be pleasant if they managed to avoid a brush with evil and Harry's terrible headaches. 

"Follow Dobby, sirs." Dobby hopped off of the ottoman and beckoned them towards the common room exit.

Harry and Draco both covered themselves with the cloak, which they were able to fit under semi-comfortably. Draco was immediately enveloped by a sense of safety that he wasn't used to during their explorations. The hair on the back of his neck stayed down, and their exhalations made him feel warmer (if not stuffier) than he had been back in the dorms.

They were quiet, following after the house elf and his strange, familiar gait. Draco had never really noticed it before, though he supposed he had never spent much time around the house elves anyway.

And Dobby, for his part, seemed to know his way around the castle surprisingly well. Perhaps elves had some sort of internal homing device that was leading him towards his friends.

Draco wondered how different the Hogwarts kitchens would be from the one at home. There would certainly be more elves, that was for sure. Even at the Manor, the kitchen seemed like a busy ant hill filled with a dozen or so elves. The amount needed to staff an entire castle would be overwhelming.

He didn't voice his thoughts, though--in part because he was nervous, but also because of his newfound knowledge that the portraits were listening. And invisibility seemed to beckon a silence with it as well.

What was the point, after all, if they were to give themselves away with sound?

Dobby was doing well on his own, expertly navigating his way through the corridors. Surely, it wasn't strange for a house elf to be out and about wandering the castle. Not even Mrs. Norris would--

_ Oh. Mrs. Norris.  _

Like the devil, just thinking of the wicked cat seemed to summon her. Around the next corner, they were greeted with glowing gold eyes. On reflex, Draco froze, and Harry stumbled to a stop next to him.

The cat stared them down, looking straight past Dobby. Of course. She could smell them. Looking eerily determined, she began trotting towards them. 

Draco felt completely defenseless.

Dobby, however, was good for many things besides in-castle Apparition and late-night kitchen visits. He got in the way of the cat and began waving his arms at her.

"Shoo! Shoo! Bad cat! Dobby is not liking cats! Go away!"

Mrs. Norris hissed, took one last look at where Draco and Harry were waiting invisibly, and turned tail and scampered away. 

Draco let out a long sigh of relief, and felt the warm breath bounce back against his face against the cloak.

Dobby turned around and faced them, a scowl set on his face. "Dobby is not letting angry cats hurt Masters. Dobby is here to protect Master Draco and Harry Potter!"

Draco laughed quietly. "I thought you were here to help us find the kitchens?"

Dobby's eyes widened. "O-of course, Master Draco! Yes! Dobby is finding kitchens!" He spun around immediately and began walking even faster.

Exchanging a confused look, Draco and Harry quickened their pace to keep up. They continued like that for several more minutes, past stationary suits of armor and resting portraits.

Besides them and the cat, the entire castle seemed to be in a tranquil, frost-bitten sleep. It was as if things still had yet to return to a normal pace even after a week back at school.

It didn't take much longer until they arrived at an inconspicuous painting of a fruit bowl. Dobby stopped in front of it and turned around to look at the boys expectantly.

"What is it?" Harry whispered.

"Is this it?" Draco echoed.

Dobby shifted from one foot to the other. "The kitchens are being behind this portrait," he said, lowering his head.

"Brilliant!" exclaimed Harry. "How do we get in?"

"Dobby is not telling you yet."

"What?" Draco demanded. "Why not?"

"D-Dobby is a bad elf. Dobby has been lying to masters." The elf hung his head in shame. "Dobby m-must tell Master Draco the truth!"

Draco frowned and pulled off the Invisibility cloak. "What's the matter?"

"Dobby is not being here to fetch Master Draco tea," Dobby admitted, his eyes beginning to water up. "Dobby was already being inside castle when Master Draco called, so Dobby came. D-Dobby is only wanting to help...." He began pulling at his ears frantically. "Dobby is a bad elf! Dobby is a liar!"

Draco watched in shock as the elf began to bash his head against the wall beneath the portrait.

"Dobby!" he hissed. "Stop it! You've done nothing wrong!"

"That's right," Harry affirmed. "You're fine, Dobby."

He stopped punishing himself and turned to face them. "Master is not mad with Dobby?"

"Why would I be mad?" Draco huffed, crossing his arms. He was frustrated with the elves' tendency to become so emotional. "But, why were you in the castle, and not at home?"

"Dobby is just trying to protect the Masters Malfoy," he replied, wringing his hands. "Dobby was seeing bad things at Christmas. Dobby is trying to fix things."

"Fix what?" Harry asked. "What happened at Christmas?"

"Dobby was seeing a bad man looking through the Manor," the elf replied, his gaze darting about anxiously. "Dobby went to talk to his friend elves at the bad man's house."

"What are you talking about?" Draco demanded, flashes of an off-memory filling his head. "What bad man?"

"Mister Parkinson, sir," Dobby answered quietly. "Mister Parkinson was trying to find something, and hurt Dobby." He straightened up a bit. "But Dobby is not letting bad men hurt Master Malfoy! Dobby is finding his things!"

"Finding his what?" inquired Harry.

"Dobby does not know," he admitted, lowering his head once more. "Dobby's friends say Mister Parkinson is trying to sabotage Master Malfoy. Dobby is worried for Master Draco."

"Of course it's Parkinson," Draco grumbled, shaking his head in dismay. "It's fine though, Dobby. You've nothing to worry about. He can't hurt me here."

"Dobby is not so sure...."

"We'll be fine." Harry smiled cheerfully at the wary elf. "Now, how do we get into the kitchens?"

"Oh." Dobby smiled back at him. "Tickle the pear."

* * *

 

With a belly full of warm tea, and a head tired from a day of school and exploring, Draco was able to fall asleep after he returned from the kitchens.

Before he drifted off, however, he managed to tell a reluctant Dobby to go home. He was fine, after all. Parkinson wasn't able to get into the castle, even if his wretched daughter was in attendance.

He fell asleep haunted by recurring dreams, filled with dark shadows and books. Lady Antoinette's voice echoed in his head, narrating a story he couldn't quite recall. 

The next morning, he would wake with a sense of anxiety and unease.

This feeling would only be confirmed when he would discover that young, enthusiastic Colin Creevey had been attacked in the middle of the night.

The Heir of Slytherin was back for another strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before writing this I had a headcanon of the first and second years going to the prefects if they were cold at night, and the prefects would cast warming charms for them so they could go back to sleep
> 
> But lets be honest. neither Draco or Harry could swallow their pride enough to actually go do that. And Marcus Flint would cuss them out and growl like a caged tiger for being awoken at zero dark thirty before he would warm up any cute little first or second years :/
> 
> But I can imagine Ron going to Percy in the middle of the night for a warming charm and being really bitter about it, like "I didn't want to have to do this but I'm freezing. Please help me and if you tell anyone I will hurt you." And Percy just being really confused and kind of like "alright, okay, don't make it a big deal." And then somehow the other first years find out (like Neville. Mostly just Neville) and soon in the winter months Percy is being forced to give out nightly warming charms until he goes to McGonagall and says "this is a problem. warm up these freaking dorms"
> 
> Okay. I would love to write that but I'm a bit too busy :( If someone else would write that I would love you forever *wink wink nudge*


	23. Harry Potter and the Blue Book

"You don't think it was Potter, was it?"

"I saw Creevey bothering him quite a bit. I wouldn't blame him."

"That's terrible! You can't say that!"

"So? It's true. Anyway, don't tell anyone if you're a muggleborn, okay? We have to stay safe."

"Shh. He's coming."

"Malfoy in tow. You sure he's not the Heir instead?"

"Little Death Eater devil. Corrupting the Boy Who Lived."

Harry hung his head and tried to avoid the whispers. Draco was walking next to him, their shoulders brushing. The contact was the only thing that kept Harry from breaking down and running out of the Great Hall.

Rationally, he knew he wasn't the one that had paralyzed Colin in the night. He had no recollection of that.

But his guilt was not rational, and the whispers around him were starting to get to his head. What if he really was a Dark wizard, and that was how he defeated Voldemort? What if he was hurting people and he didn't even know it?

"We can leave if you want," Draco whispered as they took a seat. "We can grab some apples and go. Who needs breakfast on a Saturday, anyway?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not like I have anything to hide."

It was true, as far as he knew, but the small words did nothing to evaporate the dark cloud of dread that was beginning to take permanent residence over his head. 

He tried to focus on Padfoot and Moony's words to him over vacation, but they did little to stifle his frustration or his fear. Additionally, despite his better judgment, they did little to curb the budding, desperate desire for action inside of him.

He knew they didn't want him trying to be the hero, and he knew they didn't want him using the cloak in any way that could get him in trouble, but part of him knew that wouldn't stop him.

He would get to the bottom of this Heir of Slytherin thing, no matter the cost, no matter how long it took. 

He felt responsible.

* * *

Two weeks later, Harry wasn't feeling any differently. He felt guilty, he felt afraid, and he wanted to do something.

So, it was a Sunday night that Harry decided to go to the Hospital Wing under the cover of his Cloak. He and Draco had spent an hour or two there earlier in the day, as they did on slow Saturdays, but it was of little use. Hermione was still unconscious and unmoving, and now Colin Creevey had joined her.

Madam Pomfrey had murmured quietly about the cure, and how the mandrakes would be matured before spring, but it wasn't very comforting.

So, it was with a little anxiety and a lot of guilt that Harry set out into the castle hallways alone that night. He found that late night excursions were much less stressful now that he had the gift of invisibility to help him.

He felt a little bad leaving Draco behind, though. He just wanted to do this alone. 

The dungeons were quiet, as usual. The sound of his own footsteps and breathing filled his ears. Being invisible, while beneficial, made him exponentially more aware of every sound he made.

He just hoped he didn't encounter Mrs. Norris again.

Things were going smoothly until he had gone up the staircase out of the dungeon. Then, he began to notice a sly itch on his forehead. When he reached up to scratch it, he felt the smooth indent of his scar.

 _I'm sure it's just a coincidence,_ he thought, a sense of malaise filling him.  _Nothing to worry about._

He scratched at it, and then continued on his way. He wasn't going to acknowledge it, even if it was his scar trying to talk to him. He didn't need to go wherever it wanted him to go.

Uneasily, he remembered the last time he was alone and followed his scar. He couldn't remember much from the strange event, but some part of him was threatening that it was related to the Heir.

If he was able to phase out like he did that last time, then maybe there was a chance he was paralyzing people....

His thoughts began to drift away and get swept into a cyclone of anxiety. Had he zoned out the night Hermione was paralyzed? What if he had somehow slipped out before or after going to the kitchens with Draco the night before?

What if he really was the Heir? What if his scar was something Dark, taking him to the places he shouldn't go, telling him to do things he shouldn't do? What if--

He froze as he realized he wasn't anywhere near the Hospital Wing. He had phased out again, though not quite like the last thing. His scar had begun to throb steadily, and his heart rate began to quicken.

He could hear sobbing.  

It was becoming from behind a door, one he recognized. One where bad things had happened before.

_Who's in there in the middle of the night?_

Harry crept towards the door, wondering why he had ended up there. His thoughts quickly became cancelled out, however, by the intensity of the throbbing in his skull. 

He opened the door, his movements mechanical, and entered the room. The sobbing was loud, and there were words, but they were unintelligible. It took Harry a minute to realize that his feet were soaked, and his scar stopped aching at once.

Slowly, he looked down, fearing the worst, that this time there would be blood.

It was only water. The toilets were overflowing.

With his headache miraculously gone, he was able to analyze his surroundings. The room was quite dark, and everything was cast in shades of blue over the cracked marble of the walls and sinks. The air smelled foul, but that must have been from the toilets. 

The wailing was coming from one of the stalls. Harry was about to investigate, but he felt a presence behind him. He froze, but did not turn around.

"Go, boy," said a familiar, deep voice. "There is nothing for you here. Go before you do something you regret."

Panic rose in Harry's chest. "Like what?" he whispered.

Would he hurt someone? Had he done something like this before? Even if it was irrational (which he was certain it was not), the only explanation he could come up with that he was the Heir, and that he was being stopped before he could do something again.

"It doesn't concern you."

Harry turned around to look at the Bloody Baron. "You're trying to stop me, aren't you? You're always there when this happens. My headaches, the attacks, and you."

The Baron continued to drift weightlessly in the air before him, though the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. He could see straight through Harry's cloak, it seemed, and it was unnerving.

"I would never try to stop you, Mr. Potter."

"Y-you wouldn't?" Harry felt floored. Was the Baron a friend or an ally? Was  _Harry_ a friend or an ally? Surely, if he were the Heir, even if he couldn't remember, he was a bad guy...

"I'm just here to pick up what was left behind," the Baron answered, shifting to the side a few inches. "Were it to fall into your hands, I cannot say what would happen."

"Left behind by who?"

"A victim."

Harry swallowed. "D-did I do this?"

"Don't touch the book. It will ruin everything."

Harry clenched his fist. "Am I the Heir?" he demanded, raising his voice, trying to be brave. He could be brave. He  _was_ brave. He could face the truth, even if the truth were so terrible.

"What?" The Baron seemed somewhat shocked.

Harry would have demanded more answers, but his head began to throb once more, and if the Baron had said anything, he wasn't able to hear. There was a strange shifting sound from the walls, and then his ears were overwhelmed by a sudden whispering, one he only remembered hearing clearly once before. 

The night Hermione was attacked.

 _Why don't you try and open the Chamber? Then you'll know for sure._ The voice was loud and cracking, and it shook Harry to the core.

_I can't. I won't._

_But you can. And you will. Maybe not today. But one day._

_No. I'm not that person. I'm not._

_Aren't you, though?_

The walls seemed to shake again, and after a moment, his headache was gone.

And so was the Baron. The wailing had ceased, too.

"Oh, he's gone. He's gone..." 

Harry spun around to see another ghost in front of the bathroom stall. "Did you see him go?"

"He went with it," she replied, shaking her head. "G-g-good riddance. He's just as bitter and mean as the girl who threw that book at me!"

"What girl? What book?" Harry tried to shake his head, but it did nothing to change the fact that everything felt surreal. His senses were still ringing, and everything felt strange. It had all changed so fast.

"Oh, of course you ask about the  _book,"_ the ghost grumbled. "No one ever bothers to ask about poor Moaning Myrtle! No, they just throw books through her to see what happens. No wonder you're just like the rest."

"I'm sorry," Harry replied sharply, "but that's not the first thing on my mind."

"Of course you're not sorry," Myrtle wailed. "No one's ever sorry! That's why I'm dead! No one ever apologized about that! And now the Chamber is open again."

"Wait." Harry tried to focus. "You know about the Chamber? When it was open before?"

Myrtle let out a loud wail. "What does it matter?" She flew from her spot, crying out something unintelligible before plunging herself into a toilet.

Harry was left feeling dumbfounded and overwhelmed by everything that had just happened to him. He wasn't sure how to interpret the Baron, or the voice, or that Moaning Myrtle.

He wondered, though, what the Baron was trying to keep him from. And word of a "victim." Perhaps they were in one of the stalls?

He looked around the bathroom, but there were no bodies. All the stalls were empty, save for one, but there was no person. There was a plain, blue book shoved into the toilet, and it was seemingly what was causing the flooding.

Tentatively, Harry reached in and pulled it out. It didn't seem to be terribly wet, despite all the exposure it had to the water.

 _Must be charmed,_ he thought. He flipped through it to find that it was empty. Shrugging, he decided to keep it, since there might as well have been one good outcome of the strange night, and a water-proof notebook was as good as any.

Still, he was wary as he crept back to the Slytherin dorms. He wasn't sure if he was afraid of some perpetrator hiding in an empty room, or if he was afraid that the perpetrator was himself. 

He did know that he couldn't tell anyone what had happened. Not until he knew for certain what exactly had happened.

It was strange. He knew he should have felt more terrified, more upset, more unnerved. But he was mostly shocked, and it was easy to return to his dorm, tuck the blue book underneath his mattress, and fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Harry was quiet. Everyone was quiet, really. Something was wrong.

Draco had obviously picked up on it. When they walked to their first class with Blaise and Theo, the hallways were nearly silent. There were always the stares, of course, which didn't help much.

"What's going on?" Draco whispered, looking around uneasily. He took a step closer to Harry, and their shoulders brushed.

Harry felt comforted by that, in a strange way. Draco always seemed to do that to him.

"They found another one," Blaise answered, looking straight ahead. He was solemn, too, which was more unnerving than anything else.

That made Harry's stomach drop in terror, but he didn't show it. He didn't mean to ask what Blaise meant. Suddenly, his footsteps felt much heavier than they did a moment ago.

 _It couldn't have been me who did that,_ he thought.  _I don't remember._

But he had been out and about, hadn't he? What if someone had spotted him? 

"Who was it?" he asked, the question coming out as a hoarse whisper.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," Theo answered. "Just another mudblood,"

And  _that_ made Harry's blood run cold. As if the word had a taboo charm, a dozen heads zoned in on Harry and his friends. His pace quickened, and he couldn't think of what to do.

But Draco saved it, as usual. "Don't say that," he snapped. "The point is, someone was hurt. Hermione's hurt. People are hurt, and whether we know them or not, it's terrible."

He sounded almost guilty. He was probably trying to atone for his reputation.

But Draco was innocent. Harry wasn't so sure about himself.

* * *

 

The school day passed in a blur, filled with thoughts of Justin and if he knew this boy and if he had known he was a muggleborn. It was clear the Heir only went after muggleborns, which only tainted the Slytherin name further.

Everyone in the House was getting either fearful or angry glances, and it played out in Quidditch games. Their next match was in two weeks, against Ravenclaw, and the tension was _thick._ Practices were intense, and Harry stayed high in the air, away from all his thoughts.

_What am I?_

That one wasn't a thought anymore. It was a mantra. He couldn't escape it. It consumed him, silenced him, made him tremor with guilt and fear. It made it impossible for him to sleep, with questions at the fringes of his mind beckoning at him, begging to be chased so they could consume him. 

His doubts were devouring him from the inside, and he couldn't answer any of them. There was a voice, a soul in him that promised he was good, that offered him certainty and proof.

But it was as if there was something else there, too, and it itched and scratched and bled, and it showed him terrible things that he couldn't believe were inside of him.

Sleeping was futile, he decided by midnight. He resisted the urge to climb out of bed and go wandering the castle. That seemed to do nothing but bad for him and the rest of the school.

He remembered the curious book he had found in the toilet the night before. It was probably soaked and illegible, but he decided he had nothing better to do. He would investigate.

He quietly pulled it out from under his mattress, and then slid all the way under his bed sheets. He used his wand to make light to see with, and his breath already felt hot and suffocating under the blankets.

But none of that mattered, because the blue book was not at all ruined, he found. It was as if it had never been wet at all!

And there were words on the very first page. A name.

_T.M._ _Riddle_

Something stirred in him. That strange itching feeling. He could have sworn he felt it in his scar, but he wasn't sure.

But it was a just a notebook, he reminded himself, so he decided that he might as well write in it. After all, that was what notebooks were for. And Moony had always told him he should keep a diary.

The opportunity had practically leapt into his lap! Maybe writing out his feeling would help him think out all of the crazy stuff that had been happening. 

He tried to be quiet when he groped about for a quill and ink bottle. He was almost certain Draco was awake, but his friend didn't bother him. He might have been sleeping, or just respecting his privacy.

He opened to the first page (the one without the name on it), and wondered what he should write. What does one say when starting these sort of things?

 _Hello,_ he wrote, and that was all. He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he paused a moment. And then, he saw the ink disappear. 

This was surprising, to say the least, but not as surprising as what came next.

 _ **Hello** , _appeared on the page again, but not in Harry's handwriting. It was followed followed by,  ** _Who are you?_**

Harry was shocked, and let out a surprised gasp. It could talk back! How remarkable!

But there was a small, familiar voice in his head, warning him to be careful. It sounded a bit like Moony. Or Pads. Both were pestering him about safety as of late, and he obviously had not complied. He would do his best to be careful here.

After all--it was never wise to trust someone whose face you couldn't see.

 _Who are_ _you?_ Harry returned, scribbling quickly.  _T.M. Riddle?_

 _That's me,  _came the response.  _Call me Tom. But who are you? I asked first, after all._

Harry paused again and ignored the question.  _Tom Riddle._ He was certain he had heard the name before.... Perhaps when he was polishing trophies in detention? That made sense.

 _I'm a student at Hogwarts,_ Harry wrote back, choosing to be vague.  _Are you? Or were you?_

_How can I answer your questions if you don't answer mine?_

_Sorry. Just being careful._

_That's alright, I suppose. People usually open up to me after a while. You'll find I'm a very good listener._

_Other people? Do other people talk to you?_

_Sometimes. They tell me their secrets. What they wish for. What they like to do. Who they hate. Who they love. What about you? Is there anything you'd like to tell me?_

Harry was dumbfounded, but just for a moment. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he was certainly confused. He wanted to know more about this diary, before he told it anything important. It was the least he could do for Pads and Moons.

_Not particularly. I usually like to know people before I tell them anything._

_Coy, aren't you? I suppose you mustn't need me, like the others did. You have people to talk to._

_Is that what you're for? For listening to people who have secrets?_

_I suppose so. What else is a diary for, after all? Now, come on. Isn't there anything you'd like to get off your chest? Anything at all? Perhaps a crush on someone, but you can't tell anyone. You can tell me! No one will find out._

Harry froze. That hit home, and he didn't quite know why. His cheeks turned bright pink, and he was suddenly very grateful that Draco had left him alone. 

 _No,_ he wrote quickly.

_ Come on. Everyone loves someone. You must be lying. _

_I don't lie._

_Of course you don't._ The sarcasm is somehow biting and evident.  _But, if you ever do lie, you can tell me about it. You can tell me anything._

_I love plenty of people, okay?_

_Okay._ Tom seemed slightly satisfied.  _Fine, then. Are you jealous of anyone?_

Someone came to mind immediately, and Harry jammed the quill into the paper in frustration.

_Ooh, interesting. I'll take that as a yes. There's no need to be aggressive, my friend._

_It's stupid,_ Harry scrawled, and he was willing to share. He never had the opportunity to rant about it, and the stupid diary couldn't hurt. 

_Well, do tell._

_He's an absolute idiot. I don't know why everyone loves him. He's never done anything, and he's prejudiced, and his hair is so stupid and perfect and--_

Harry broke off, embarrassed with himself. 

 _I don't know,_ he added, before Tom could respond.  _It's just stupid._

 _I don't think it's stupid,_ Tom replied, and that actually made Harry feel better. 

_His hair is stupid._

_Are you jealous of his hair?_

_No._ Of course Harry wasn't jealous of Lockhart's hair. That was absolutely ridiculous. And frivolous. Harry was not nearly so shallow.

_You should get some hair gel, my friend._

__Harry scowled and slammed the diary shut. _What does he know about my hair?_ he thinks.  _It's just a stupid book. It doesn't know anything._

He decided he would go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it just me or does anyone else like to imagine all the ink and water in the book just soiling tom? like all the toilet water in the book just ends up pouring all over him like a rain cloud he can't escape (even though he's a ghost whatever) and he just crosses his arms, huffs, and thinks "the shit i do for this job, man" :/


	24. Draco Malfoy and Curiosity

Draco didn't want to be nosy. He knew Harry wouldn't like it, but he had to see.

He wanted to know what this secret book was. He had never seen it before, and then Harry had just pulled it out from under his bed. It was strange, and unusual. He had been reading it under his covers every night for a while now, and hadn't mentioned it to Draco at all. He even made efforts to hide it, and he always double checked to make sure that Draco was asleep.

When Harry asked him if he was awake every night, Draco pretended to be passed out. Harry would heave a sigh of relief, sometimes whisper "good," to himself, and then go to reading it. 

Draco decided he had to do something that was very sneaky to find out what it. He felt really bad about it, too, but he had to sate his curiosity. He was always worried about Harry, and he didn't want Harry to have to hide anything from him. If it wasn't something serious, he wanted to be able to share it with Harry and talk about it with him. 

In order to get to the diary in the dorm when Harry wasn't there, he would either have to wait until Harry snuck out at night without him. He wasn't that patient, though. He had to create a reason for Harry to be out.

He may or may not have done something in Quidditch practice that got Harry in trouble, and he had to stay behind to run laps. Draco felt guilty, but he  _had_ to do it.

Alright, so maybe he  _did_ want to be nosy, and maybe he  _wasn't_ all that filled with guilt. He felt pretty self-righteous.

The dorm was empty when he got back, and he was very grateful to see that Harry had left the diary behind. He mustn't of had a reason to take it with him. 

Draco snatched it and bounced onto his bed, excitedly looking at the cover. It was blank, and blue. Draco took a second to guess what Harry could be reading about, but couldn't think of anything.

He opened the book with haste, only to see that it was empty.

Nothing.

 _Nothing?_ he thought, confused. He flipped through the pages, but every single one was blank--besides the first, which had a name, but that didn't really mean anything. 

He grabbed his satchel to try and find his wand so he could check for any charms. He wasn't that great at that sort of work, but his father had taught him some things.

Sorting through his bag, he felt something wet spill. Terrified, he realized his ink pot hadn't been corked, and lifted the bag into the air so it wouldn't spoil his blankets.

This wasn't a good idea, however. Lifted in the air, it began to drip, and ink splattered all over the blank pages in the book.

Draco's eyes widened, and he dropped the bag on the floor without a second thought.  _This_ was bad. Now he had to come up with a solution, or else Harry would find out, and be very upset, and--

And the problem solved itself. The ink was absorbed into the pages. Just gone. There was nothing in the book again.

This made Draco pause. He had never heard of anything like that, not even in Mother's library.... He decided to try it out. He reached into his bag and searched for the ink, which had spilled everywhere. 

Now that he was less frantic, he remembered the cleaning charm that would fix that problem. He got all the liquid back into the pot within a few seconds, and found his quill.

When he returned to the book, he saw something that made him gasp.

_ Clumsy! Why'd you spill that ink on me? _

The book was talking back. Excitedly, Draco hunched over the book with his quill and wrote a response.

_It was an accident. But you're just a book. You don't care._

The ink disappeared into the pages once more, and a response appeared a few moments later.

_You're not the one from last night, are you?_

_You mean Harry?_

The book seemed to ponder that for a moment.

_ Yes, Harry. Are you a friend of his? _

_I am. Did he tell you anything about me?_

_I don't share the secrets I'm told._

Draco was surprised. Harry had secrets about him?

 _Besides,_ the book adds,  _I wouldn't know if he talked about you unless you told me your name._

Draco felt silly. Of course.

_My name is Draco Malfoy._

 

_Interesting._

_What?_

_What's your friend's name, again?_

_Didn't he tell you?_

_ Of course he told me. But I have trouble believing he would be friends with a Malfoy. _

Draco was offended.  _What about Malfoys? You don't know me or Harry, clearly._

_Maybe not. But I would have thought, as a Malfoy, you might want to.... hurt Harry. Harry Potter, yes?_

_Yeah. He's my best friend. I would never hurt him!_

He doesn't know why the book would assume that he would, though it probably had something to do with his father. Maybe the fact that Harry was the Boy Who Lived.

_Fascinating. Are you a blood traitor, Draco?_

_What? Why would you ask that? That's terrible?_

_It's just a question. No harm meant, of course._

Draco was starting to think he didn't like this book very much. Part of him believed that it was a Dark artifact, but it doesn't make any sense. Wouldn't it have burned him? Mother and Father always told him to stay away from anything Dark because they burned.

So, it probably wasn't Dark, he concluded. It just wanted to get to know him. 

_Do you know anything about my family?_

_Of course. You usually aren't blood traitors. And you have sharp tongues._

_Did you know my father?_

_I don't tell other people's secrets._

It was the second time the book had said something along those lines. Draco decided to test it.

_Are you a secret keeper? Can I tell you a secret?_

_Tell me anything you like._

_I'm afraid everyone hates me, and thinks me or Harry is the Heir of Slytherin. I'm a good person, and so is Harry. We wouldn't do that. We wouldn't hurt our own friend._

_A very strange Malfoy indeed. The Heir only hurts mudbloods, does he not? Are you friends with one?_

The book must have been very outdated, to still be calling people mudbloods. 

_Do you know anything about the Heir?_

Surely that isn't a secret. Maybe the book knows something.

_I know plenty of things. People tell me their secrets, after all._

Excited now, Draco was about to press it further for more answers, but he was jolted by the door swinging open. A sweaty, tired looking Harry trudged into the room, and his eyes fixed on Draco with the book.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded. "Don't touch it!"

Draco dropped the quill in alarm, and Harry stalked over and slammed it shut. He threw it across the room.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Why were you looking at that book?"

"I wanted to know what you were reading last night," Draco replied, defensively, a little scared.

"Then ask me!" Harry growled. "I don't go and read your things when you aren't there!"

"I'm sorry!" Draco stood up, and the ink pot wobbled precariously on the bed. "I get worried about you, okay?"

"Do you even know what that book is?" 

"Do you?"

Harry was quiet for a moment, and then shook his head. "No," he admitted, slightly calmer. "But I don't trust it. Did you tell it anything?"

"No," Draco said immediately, and then frowned. "Well, I told it my name. It was surprised we were friends."

"Wait, what? Why would it be surprised?" Harry had a shocked look on his face.

"I don't know!" he exclaimed, suddenly flustered. "It was surprised I was friends with--it called them 'mudbloods.'"

Harry looked across the room, where the book and flopped against the wall. He looked wary. 

"Do you know the name Tom Riddle?" he asked slowly.

Of course Draco knew the name. Mother and Father may not have told him much about their past with the Death Eaters, but he wasn't stupid. He was fairly certain Snape had mentioned it, too. He just didn't see how it was related--

_Oh. T.M. Riddle. Tom Riddle._

Voldemort.

He felt stupid. He didn't even think when he saw the name in the book. He wasn't thinking at all. 

"Harry," he whispered. "This is very, very bad."

"What?" Harry demanded, full of anticipation. He seemed almost excited.

Draco, on the other hand, was not. It was as if he and Harry had switched places. Now, Draco knew more about the book, and things were starting to piece together.

But he wasn't sure.

"We have to tell Snape," he said.

"What?" Harry repeated, and he shook his head violently. "We can't tell Snape! He'll take the book away!"

"Do we even  _want_ that thing?" Draco hissed, looking at it warily.

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he went across the room to pick it up again. Holding it gingerly in his hands, he asked, "What is it, Draco?"

"I don't know," Draco admitted, "But... T.M. Riddle... He's..."

"He's what?"

Draco couldn't say it out loud, so he whispered it into Harry's ear.

_"He's the Dark Lord. That was Voldemort's name."_

He was close enough to see the hairs on the back of his friend's neck stand up in fear. The book dropped to the floor.

They both had the same thought, and voiced it at the same time.

"We have to get rid of it."

The question was, how? Someone had already tried to get rid of it, that much was clear. Did they give it to Dumbledore? To Snape? Throw it into the Black Lake?

Or did they talk to it one last time? Draco was terribly afraid to, now. What if it had heard them speak?

"Why does this have to happen all at once?" Harry groaned, shaking his head. "The Heir, this notebook... Voldemort's notebook.... Oh, god.... Did we talk to Voldemort?"

The thought made Draco want to vomit.

"We have to do something," he whispered. "But we can't tell a teacher, can we? We'll get in trouble. Everyone already thinks you're bad, Harry--that I'm bad, too! Having this is.... Well, it's bad!"

"I know," Harry replied, beginning to pace. "I know, I know! This is all bad timing. We have to do something!" He stops, looking pained. "I wish Hermione were here. She would know what to do."

"Well, let's think like Hermione," Draco suggested. And then it hit him.

_Hermione._

The diary knew about the Heir. It said it only went after "mudbloods." And of  _course_ Voldemort--the diary!--would know about that. He hated muggleborns, too, didn't he? 

"What if it's not timing?" he asked, and a light suddenly went on in his head. "What if these things aren't disconnected after all?"

"Okay, a lot like Hermione." Harry gave him a confused, half-smile. "What do you mean?"

"Doesn't it make sense?" Draco asked. "Voldemort had to have been the last Heir! Why didn't anyone just  _say_ anything?"

"I don't know," Harry replied, looking very thoughtful now. "If he is, though, that makes sense. People have been saying I'm the next Dark Lord, and they're saying that I'm the Heir...."

"What about those voices you heard?" Draco was excited now. He had forgotten all about the diary, and his mind was connecting all the dots. "No one else heard them, right?"

"Yeah, but I was the only one up." He paused for a moment, and then his face lit with a "eureka" moment. 

"What is it, Harry?"

"The Bloody Baron," Harry said, and his eyes were wide. "He's been there  _every time._ What he said to me last time--"

"What do you mean?" Draco interrupted. "Last time? Every time?"

"Every time someone was paralyzed!" Harry exclaimed. "The Baron's been there.  _I've_ been there. That has to mean--"

This time, Harry cut himself of. They stared at each other for a long moment, a horrible realization setting in. The elation was long gone.

"You didn't do it, Harry." It's all Draco could say. He was promising himself. "Y-you weren't there the last time. Were you?"

Harry just lowered his head, shameful.

"The Baron knows," he whispered. "We'll have to ask him."

"Unless he did it," Draco pointed out. "It could be him, Harry. Not you."

"No." Harry shook his head. "He's a  _ghost,_ Draco. We can't jump from Voldemort to ghosts like that."

"We can't jump from Voldemort to  _you_ like that!"

Harry was frowning. He looked sad, really.

"We'll have to talk to him," he said. "Last time I saw him, he said things that--well, they scared me. I think he knows I've done it, Draco."

The thought was sickening to Draco, and all he wanted to do was shake some sense into Harry, to tell him that he's not the one doing the attacks. It  _wasn't_ Harry. It  _couldn't_ be Harry.

But, he wasn't going to argue, either. Harry had a point. If the Baron knew something, they needed answers. And they probably had more luck with the stoic old ghost than anyone living.

"What do we do, then? Do we look for him?"

"No," Harry replied. "He'll come to us. He always does."

Draco swallowed the lump forming in his throat. "We'll have to out with the Cloak, won't we?"

"You have to keep an eye on me." Harry had a very intense expression, almost as if he were afraid. "You can't let me go anywhere without you. We can't risk it."

"Okay." Draco sighed, feeling as if he had just lost something. 

Then, a thought occurred to him.

"Harry, you've been talking to that notebook for weeks," he pointed out, "and you never said anything. But you were so upset when I took it. Did you know it was dangerous?"

"I wasn't sure," Harry admitted, "but I was afraid for you. And I didn't want you to know what I had been saying."

"You can tell me anything." Draco felt hurt that Harry didn't already know that.

"I know." Harry sighed and stared at the book, lying spine up on the floor. "But I don't lie to you. I lied to that book."

"I think it knew," Draco whispered nervously. "It knew who you were."

Or, it had guessed from what Draco had told it. He wasn't sure.

"Let's just not touch it again, okay? And we'll go talk to the Baron tonight." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Bad news, guys. I have a few more weeks to update, and then things are going to get really sparse. For like the next year and a half. I'm getting sent to a residential treatment program thing, and there's not really any technology allowed... So my writing will have to go on hold for a while.  
> I'm so, so sorry. I'll update when I can, and I'm trying to get as much up as possible for now. Thanks again for staying with me...?


	25. Tom Riddle and the Girl

She was sad.

She hadn't expected to be _sad._ She was supposed to be happy! She had just gotten  _rid_ of that wretched book, and that should have been reason to rejoice. It wasn't her problem anymore.

She couldn't believe she had actually  _wanted_ that thing in the first place. She should have just shown it to her father, and then it wouldn't have been a problem at all. She wouldn't feel guilty and scared and  _sick_ on the inside.

But, she logically knew why she had wanted it. The diary-- _Tom,_ she thought, and then was immediately disgusted that she still somehow felt fond of it--had been kind to her when no one else was. It talked to her, gave her advice. She was able to share her secrets with it.

She had never really had a friend like that before. None of the other girls never liked her that much, and she felt like her family just didn't get her (she was the only daughter, after all). Tom understood that. Tom was kind to her.

Tom was sweet, really, even if it turned out he was really horrible. He called her pretty, and he told her what to say to the boy that she liked. Of course, she was never really good at following his advice, and she always said the wrong thing, but he would comfort her when she told him about it later. Even if the boy ignored her, Tom knew what to say to make her feel better.

She just couldn't understand  _how_ Tom could say such nice things and then be so  _evil._ Just before falling asleep, she would write to him and he would tell her goodnight and that he couldn't wait to hear about her dreams in the morning.

But those nights, she always had nightmares. She would wake feeling sick and dirty, and a foul smell would cling to her. She had been able to wash up without the other girls noticing, but it was always embarrassing. The first time, she thought she had wet the bed (or worse). But it was some  _other_ kind of filth, and it was from the nightmares. 

It had happened three times, and every time, the person she had her nightmare about would be paralyzed the next day.

And she had done it. She wasn't a psychic, so clearly she was the one who had done it, and she wasn't just dreaming about it. She wasn't evil, she knew that, too, but somehow she had managed to hurt people that she knew.

No matter if they were in her House or not, she still felt bad... She had a conscience.

And she knew it was Tom who made her do it. It took her a while to figure it out, but he hadn't denied it when she challenged him. And she didn't let it bother her too much, at first. What could she do, anyway?

 _I'm helping you,_ Tom assured her.  _You want him to talk to you, don't you? We could both talk to him._

 _Yes,_ she wrote back.  _We can._

But he still didn't want to talk to her. And she realized that even if she had been brave and told him that it was her who was doing it, he wouldn't have been happy.

She didn't know why she hadn't believed it at first, but he wasn't the kind of person to be happy about the whole Heir of Slytherin thing. She didn't know much about it herself, really.

Tom didn't seem like he would be the Heir, but it was the only explanation. Unless  _she_ was the Heir, but she had trouble believing that, even if she was a Pureblood....

Anyway. She'd been seeing less and less of him since the attacks started, and she now knew that they made him sad. Just watching him in the Great Hall made that obvious.

Part of her wanted to hate him. Part of her wanted to be the same as everyone else and blame him, but she knew that she did it, so she couldn't blame him. She was the evil one, not him. He would  _hate_ her if he found out. 

In fact, she was certain that he did hate her.

But Tom kept promising her that he was helping her, and that the boy would like her eventually. But that was wrong.

It was clear even after the very first attack. That Hermione Granger girl was the first, and she was around him  _all the time._ She had admitted to Tom that she was almost happy that she was gone.

Tom agreed, and said that she had a right to be jealous of the girl, and she shouldn't feel bad. Tom told her to be grateful that it had happened, that luck was on her side.

But then she found out that luck was  _not_ on her side, and somehow it was her who had nearly killed the best friend of the boy she thought she might be in love with.

She hadn't thought she was in love with him at first. She had told Tom all about him, though, and what everyone was saying about him, and Tom told her that it _sounded_ like she had a crush.

And maybe she did. It certainly _felt_ crushing when he ignored her. Or when he was terse with her.

She decided that boys were stupid. Tom and Draco Malfoy and the rest of them. She wished that she hadn't gotten involved with any of it in the first place.

She was glad she threw the diary in the toilet. She had woken up in the bathroom that night, instead of in her bed. She had known at once that Tom had done it to her, and that there must have been another person paralyzed.

She hurled the diary away from her, happening to hit some dreadful ghost along the way. But that didn't matter. She had ran back to her dorm as fast as she could.

And it wasn't her problem anymore, so she wasn't going to tell anyone. Especially not Draco Malfoy, though part of her blamed him for ending up with the book in the first place.

She didn't care if she liked him. He was an idiot, and this was all his fault.

If he wouldn't have gone and taken the books from Potter, and then been all stupid and given them to that ginger girl, then  _she_ wouldn't have needed to steal the book back from her.

She had been planning on giving it back to Father so he would have been proud of her for saving his plan (though she had no idea what it was). He wanted Potter to have the book, though, and she was going to make sure that he got it.

But then Malfoy had messed up, and she had to fix everything. And, oh, she should have just given it to Father.... But she was curious, and she had opened the book.

She had met Tom, and things had gone from there. She had tried to find out what Father had wanted to use him for, and how she supposed it had to do with that awful Boy Who Lived, and Tom told her he didn't know.

Tom lied. Tom must have known all along. Father must have wanted Potter to hurt all those students. But instead  _she_ hurt all of them, and if anyone found out (and they wouldn't, because she got  _rid_ of that bloody book!) then Father would be terribly angry, and his plan would have backfired.

Father had even gone looking for it in Malfoy Manor, when Mummy had been invited to Mrs. Malfoy's fancy dinner party. He had even told her all about it--how he had gotten Mr. Malfoy drunk with a special potion so he could sneak around without triggering the wards. He said he couldn't find it, though.

She never told Father that Malfoy had given the book away, that she had the book, and she never planned on saying so. She loved Father, but he was frightening, and she was starting to wonder if he was an evil man or not. After all, he had that  _book._ He must have known what Tom could do....

No. No one could ever know what a terrible mistake she had made.

It wasn't her fault, anyway. 

It.... wasn't. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> muahahaha


	26. Harry Potter and the Bloody Baron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY IM BACK
> 
> I JUST REREAD THE ENTIRE BOOK SO I THINK I REMEMBER WHAT I WAS PLANNING AND WHATS GOING ON
> 
> ...i hope i still have readers??

The boys were loose in the castle once more.

Pitter-pattering about his domain, getting themselves into trouble. With all their interference, the way they chased after the Heir was going to ruin something. Probably themselves.

And it just wouldn't do to get the two prize little Slytherins killed. He happened to like them, anyway. That should have been clear, after all he had done to help them! And yet the little Potter boy was still afraid of him.

Then again, he wasn't making a very good example of himself, was he? Showing up at every scene of disaster like he had been doing... Potter, being so consumed by Light culture, must have been suspicious, if not terrified.

He was just trying to help the boy. Often, it felt as though he was the only one who actually could. He was practically the only one not bound to the Headmaster's rules, after all.

Well, he was, to an extent. But no more than any ghost could be. He had more freedom than any corporeal being, despite the folklore surrounding his situation.

Yes, his past bound him. Yes, it haunted him. Yes, it kept him trapped--but only in the material world. So long as he was trapped there, he was allowed to have his own agenda.

Helena was.... she was a mistake, yes. But he learned from his mistake, and he was not about to let anyone else go down that path. And so, so many people seemed to go that way. It was almost painful seeing that he was not original in his crime of passion.

And so young, some of them. Like that Parkinson girl. The Heir had her at his fingertips, stringing her along like a marionette. Her own misguided feelings tethered her to that book, and she was left to watch the object of her desire from a distance.

She would have hurt him, eventually, even if she didn't want to. Especially if the Heir knew the boy's importance to Potter. He would have been taken immediately.

But now Potter had the book, despite his own best efforts, and now both boys were in danger.

* * *

 

The Invisibility Cloak weighed heavy above Harry and Draco as they slowly shuffled through the dungeons. 

"Where is he?" Draco whispered. He was clutching the diary close to him in one of his robe pockets. 

"Somewhere," Harry answered. He was beginning to feel that buzzing in his scar again, and he knew that the Bloody Baron was near. 

They walked through the hall and up a staircase, until they were met by a booming voice. 

"What are you two doing out of bed?"

It was the Baron. 

Harry spun around, but Draco did not, and the cloak fell off of them. Harry gathered it up in his arms, and looked up at the looming, bloody ghost. 

"Looking for you," Harry said. 

Draco turned to face him as well, though he looked terrified. 

"Me?" The Baron let out a cough of a laugh. His face was stony. "I'm afraid I know what you must want."

"Probably," Harry said. 

"Well, if you want answers, I must speak with you alone, Mr. Potter."

"That's not happening," Draco cut in. "I have to watch him. To make sure he's not--"

"Have a little faith," the Baron sighed. "And go back, Malfoy. I have no desire to speak with you."

Harry sighed. "This isn't what I wanted," he said nervously. "How can we know I won't--"

"You won't," the Baron promised. "Now, come with me."

"Take the cloak," Harry told Draco. 

"No." Draco shook his head. "You'll need it more than I do."

Harry swallowed. "Are you sure?" 

"Positive." Draco smiled a tentative smile and then began walking quickly back down the staircase. 

Harry's stomach dropped, and he hoped he would be okay. 

"Well?" the Baron demanded. "Follow me."

And Harry did. They slipped through the hallways, past sleeping portraits and silent pieces of armor guarding nothing. Part of Harry wished there were actual sentries at night to prevent more attacks from happening, but then he would never get to explore. 

They walked for several minutes until they showed up at the tapestry again. 

The Baron's tapestry. 

It was beautiful and green, and was etched with silver threads. Harry hadn't been able to notice it before, and now he saw that there were true patterns in the fabric. 

"This is where she denied me," the Baron said faintly. 

"Who?" Harry asked, looking through him up at the tapestry. It stretched from the floor to the ceiling, tall and wide. 

"My love. Helena." The Baron laughed. "But that is...irrelevant. This place is signficant for other reasons."

"Like the time I passed out here."

"Yes," he said. "But do you know why?"

"Of course not."

“Of course not?” the Baron scoffed. “Of course not, he says.”  
  
Harry blinked. “I really don’t, sir.”  
  
“Right.” The Baron drifted closer to the ground. “You understand how sewage systems work, I assume?”  
  
“I don’t see what it has to do with anything,” Harry replied, still staring up at that glorious tapestry.  
  
“It has everything to do with this,” he snapped, rolling his ghostly eyes. “I suppose I will have to start from the beginning.”  
  
“Start with what?” Harry demanded.  
  
The Baron sighed as much as one could sigh without lungs. “There really is no helping it, is there? Our dearest headmaster has left you children completely in the dark. And they call this a school.”  
  
“Please, sir,” Harry pleaded. “Tell me what’s going on. Before we get caught up here.”  
  
The Baron smirked. “No one will be catching us up here. And if they do, they’ll have to deal with me.”  
  
No one messed with the Baron, it seemed.  
  
“Alright,” Harry murmured, looking down at his feet. “What exactly is going on?”  
  
“I can’t start there,” the Baron growled. “No, like I said. I will start from the beginning.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“You of course know that Salazar Slytherin left behind this Chamber of Secrets, correct?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you understand that it can only be opened by a Parselmouth?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Harry said. “Which is why I must be the heir, because I’m the only one who speaks Parseltongue.” He felt a shudder go down his spine at the implication.  
  
“Well, that depends on your definition of alive…”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“Potter,” the Baron sighed, “do you know who the last Heir of Slytherin was?”  
  
“It was Voldemort,” Harry said immediately.  
  
The Baron did not cringe at the name; he only grimaced. “Yes, boy,” he said. “And would you consider him to still be around?”  
  
Harry blanched. “Well, I suppose, since I just saw him only last spring—”  
  
The Baron laughed. “You make it sound as if you met him for lunch.”  
  
“It wasn’t quite like that.”  
  
“Oh, I know.” The Baron smiled, revealing crooked, chipped teeth. “But if he’s still around, then how could you be the heir? There can only be one. That’s how the whole heir thing works.”  
  
Harry nodded, but he felt his gut clenching up and his heart rate pick up. “So that means Voldemort is the Heir,” he whispered.  
  
“Indeed,” the Baron hummed. “But how, do you wonder?”  
  
“I don’t know. I mean, there’s that diary—” He cut off with a gasp. “The diary. Draco has the diary. Why did you let him walk away with the diary?”  
  
He was about to run away, but the Baron stood in his path. “How many times to I have to tell you to stay away when these things happen?” he growled. “I’m not done with my story.”  
  
Harry backed up, until his back touched the tapestry and he could feel his lungs smacking against his ribcage as he hyperventilated.  
  
“You’re not helping Voldemort, are you?” he whispered.  
  
“Me?” The Baron laughed, but it was sinister. “Of course not. But that doesn’t mean I can stop him.”  
  
“You support what he’s doing, don’t you? You don’t believe in letting muggleborns into the school.”  
  
“Now where did you get that idea?” The Baron phased close in to Harry’s face, and he swore he could have smelled something foul. “Listen, boy, I fight for the same side you do.”  
  
“And everyone seems to mistake which side I’m on.”  
  
“Well, I don’t,” the Baron assured him, and floated backwards a bit. “I know many things, boy. I know that the sewage pipes allow water to pass through this wall behind you, and once the Chamber was opened, it allowed the Basilisk to slide through and attack those students.”  
  
Harry heard a rush of water behind him, and he felt a rumble. A searing pain burst through his head, and he suddenly understood what was happening.  
  
“The Chamber opens in the room where you found your friend,” the Baron whispered.  
  
Harry barely heard him over the pain pulsing in his head. He closed his eyes, and there was nothing but darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter I just wanted to get this up asap.


	27. Chapter 27

Draco stalked away from Harry and the Baron, a pout set on his face.  
  
It wasn’t fair. Why was Harry the special one? Why did Harry get to do everything alone? Why didn’t the Baron want to talk to Draco, too?  
  
He scuffed his shoe against the ground bitterly as he turned a corner. Everyone wanted their own special meetings with Harry—Lockhart, the Baron, certainly others that he didn’t know about…  
  
It simply wasn’t fair that he got left out! He needed to be by Harry’s side for these important things. He could be helpful; he wasn’t just some spoiled posh prat. He was smart, resourceful…  
  
He couldn’t believe that Harry had tried to keep the diary from him, either. He felt it tucked under his arm, a hot, malevolent weight bound to get him into trouble.  
  
He was about to pull it out to inspect it again when he heard someone calling his name. He froze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.  
  
“Draco Malfoy!”  
  
He spun on his heel to look for the source of the voice, but there was nothing. He was under the Invisibility Cloak, after all. Who could see him?  
  
“Draco! I know you’re here somewhere.”  
  
Draco felt a stone settle in his stomach and turned back around, creeping forward slowly, careful not to make a noise. He would not be caught out alone.  
  
Especially not with the diary.  
  
“Draco, it’s Lord Afton!”  
  
He froze again. Why did that name sound familiar?  
  
“It’s Corin Afton. You’re safe with me.”  
  
Realization dawned on him, and he turned to the wall, where a pale, blond man was peering out from one of the corners of the portraits. He was cloaked in very ancient looking robes, and he held a long, dark wand.  
  
“Come out, boy.”  
  
“What do you want?” Draco whispered. He did not take the cloak off.  
  
“Oh, thank Merlin. You’re here.” Afton stepped fully into the portrait, which was a night scene with a sleeping fox beneath a bush. He carefully stepped around it, and pressed himself against the portrait as if he were trying to push his way out. Draco had never seen anything like it before.  
  
“Please, my boy. I want to see you.”  
  
“Is that all?” Draco whispered.  
  
“No. I have word for you. From Antoinette.”  
  
Draco sighed, and pulled off the cloak. “Why haven’t I seen you before?” he whispered, stepping up to the portrait. The stars in its sky seemed to be spinning, which made him slightly dizzy.  
  
Afton shook his head. “I am not the most… favored of your ancestors. I married into the Malfoy line, you see, and my portrait is kept in one of the back rooms.”  
  
“Why can’t you move portraits, then?”  
  
“I can, of course,” he said, “simply not in the Malfoy house. There are certain spells restricting those of us who were blood traitors, you see.”  
  
Draco tilted his head. “You were a blood traitor?” He wasn’t aware that there had been any in the Malfoy line.  
  
He laughed. “I left my wife for a muggleborn wizard, you see,” he said, closing his eyes. “I was ostracized from the family.”  
  
“And yet they have your portrait?”  
  
“For purposes I hope you should never explore,” Afton whispered. “They keep me in the basement—more like a dungeon, in my opinion. Older generations would visit the dungeons to expel their rage onto the portraits of those of us who disgraced the family name. I was one of the few who were lucky enough to be recognized at Hogwarts for my other achievements, and therefore have another, more dignified portrait. In the Headmaster’s office.”  
  
“You were a headmaster?” Draco whispered, a little surprised.  
  
“But of course.” He smiled.  
  
“Well, what do you want from me?” Draco demanded, looking nervously around the hallway. “Your timing isn’t the best.”  
  
“Why, I saw you encounter the Baron with young Master Potter,” Afton answered. “I thought I finally had an opportunity to speak with you.”  
  
“About what?” asked Draco. “Couldn’t it wait for another time? I should be getting back into the dorms.”  
  
Afton simply laughed. “That seems rather out of character, don’t you think?”  
  
“Not without Harry.”  
  
Not that he was sure why.  
  
“Come, you may put your cloak on, if it comforts you. But you cannot leave until I say.”  
  
“Fine.” Draco put the cloak back on.  
  
“The Lady Antoinette sends her greetings, first of all,” he said, and Draco watched him settle himself on the ground next to the sleeping fox. He seemed relaxed, which was something Draco did not expect of a Malfoy ancestor.  
  
“Tell her I’m still trying to figure out how to make her portrait.”  
  
“And I am sure you are capable.” Lord Afton reached out to stroke the fox, which did not wake. Perhaps it never did. Its tail flicked as he scratched behind its ears. “But she sends warnings from home. Have you received any letters from home?”  
  
Draco frowned. “No.”  
  
“Pity.” Afton frowned as well. “It appears that your Father has been…burned. I’m not sure what that means, but Antoinette is certain it has to do with Dumbledore. Lucius must have made a mistake.”  
  
Swallowing, Draco thought he didn’t know what that meant either, but he felt as if it had to do with the contract.  
  
“And of course, she has some gossip about the other portraits, but I am not in the mood to share such trivial nonsense.” He laughed and continued stroking the fox. “But she tells me you wanted to know about the Heir of Slytherin, did you not?”  
  
Draco perked up some. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Maybe he would learn what the Baron was telling Harry.  
  
“Most of the other portraits refuse to speak of it, but I have heard whispers of sights of these attacks.” He looked up from the fox, peering at Draco through the portrait with small, blue eyes. “And I have memories of similar events from when I was headmaster.”  
  
“Tell me,” Draco whispered.  
  
“They say there is a beast that the Heir must summon,” Afton explained. “It lives in all parts of the castle, but where no one can see it.”  
  
“Not helping,” Draco sighed.  
  
“Well, I’m afraid it’s not a very well-known—”  
  
The Lord cut off, and Draco froze as he heard footsteps down the hall.  
  
“Who’s there?”  
  
Flich’s voice rang out across the hall, and his heavy footsteps echoed over the tiled floors.  
  
Draco looked over and saw him with Mrs. Norris nowhere to be seen.  
  
He looked one last time at Afton, and was grateful for the invisibility cloak. Slowly, he began walking away.  
  
“It’s just me, old friend,” Afton called out from the portrait.  
  
“And who were you talking to?” Filch stood dangerously close to Draco, who was doing his best to inch away silently.  
  
“This fox, of course,” Afton hummed, scratching its ears.  
  
Filch scoffed. “Barmy paintings.”  
  
He turned around, and Draco heaved a sigh of relief as quietly as he could.  
  
But then Mrs. Norris came careening around the corner, the ragged creature skidding to a stop in front of her master.  
  
Draco thought he was going to be caught, then, but he saw the cat transform in front of his eyes into a woman.  
  
She was old, but not as old as Filch, in torn gray robes. Her eyes glinted yellow, and she had a small frame.  
  
“What is it, dearest?” Filch whispered, looking around anxiously for any observers.  
  
“Da,” the woman whispered, and her voice was hoarse from neglect, “it’s the Potter worm. He’s passed out by the Baron’s Tapestry.”  
  
Filch stiffened. “What’s he doing there?”  
  
The woman shrugged, and then transformed back into a cat. The two ran away in the direction that Draco came from, and he was left frozen, unsure of what to do.  
  
He looked up at the portrait to ask for advice, but saw that the Lord Afton had disappeared.  
  
He was alone, with nothing but the diary under his arm.  
  
He didn’t know what to do.  
  
Should he run back for Harry?  
Should he find Professor Snape?  
  
I am afraid, he thought.  
  
And he felt the diary under his arm pulse and shift, and suddenly diary transformed into memory, and Draco was pulled to somewhere else.  
  
Meanwhile, left under the invisibility cloak, memory transformed into man.

* * *

  
  
Draco was flung through a vortex of things he didn’t understand. He was pressed close to feelings of power, feelings of loneliness, feelings of anger so strong he could barely comprehend them. He saw flashes of Hogwarts years before he was born, he saw teachers and students and heard snippets of conversations he didn’t understand….  
  
And then, he was in a dark place.  
  
It was cold, it reeked of death and flesh and fish, and he could see nothing. He heard squelching, but it was not like the Squid’s, and it was not friendly—it was evil. And it was receding, heading upward.  
  
Draco was very, very afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I sort of have my own theories about Mrs. Norris and about the diary. Any questions?


	28. Severus Snape and the Night

_The sun was high in the sky._

_Green eyes flashed before him, and red hair blew in the wind with the quiet energy of an indian summer. The pond rippled as tadpoles darted underneath the surface and the birds tried to devour them._

_"Severus," Lily said._

_Severus looked over at the girl, who was too young, too soft to be real. He felt his own body, old_ _and grown and aching, and felt a green twinge of envy for days he could no longer have._

_"Lily." He closed his eyes and crossed his arms. "I haven't dreamt of you in a while now."_

_"I try to leave you in peace," she murmured._

_"How kind of you." He opened his eyes and glanced over at her, saw that she had grown fully into a woman in the time that his eyes had closed. Suddenly, the innocence was drained from her eyes, and her shoulders hung heavy. Her skin was pallid, her eyes were sunken._

_She was a woman who knew death._

_"It's my son," she said._

_"Please, Lily," Severus sighed. "This is my_ dream.  _If you so desire to leave me in peace, then do not mention your progeny--the evidence of your sin."_

_"I don't have time for your envy." Lily placed a hand on his shoulder, gripped it tightly, digging in with her fingernails. "You have to help my son."_

_"I'm doing the best I can," Severus insisted. "It's difficult with your darling lord Dumbledore over my head constantly."_

_"Severus!" Lily snapped. "Do not--"_

_He stiffened, and realized at once that this was not a good dream, that this was not the real Lily. The real Lily would see the injustice that the Light had done to him and her son, see the chains that bound him as evil as the Dark Mark that had begun to blemish his arm once more in the past few weeks._

_"You are not real." He pushed himself to his feet. "I don't have time for you, either, Lily Potter."_

_"It's Evans," she insisted, her voice sickly sweet._

_Severus closed his eyes, and urged himself back into the waking world._

_His only thought was how grateful he was that his dreams were the one place that Dumbledore could not penetrate._

* * *

"Severus."

He opened his eyes into the waking world, no longer master of his reality as he was when he dreamed. It was dark, but he could make out the faint glow of a ghost above him.

"Hello," he said, pushing himself up. "What brings you to my chambers, Baron?"

The Bloody Baron narrowed his eyes, peered directly into his soul.

"It's Potter," he said. "He's passed out again by the tapestry. And I'm afraid the Malfoy boy is nowhere to be found."

Severus immediately swung his legs out of the bed, got to his feet, and slid on his slippers. Clothed in nothing but his night robes and shoes, he was not prepared for anything that was about to come.

He should have known. 


End file.
